
Class, ' 

Book 

Copyright }J" 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



'49 



<3 /v/^ 



The Gold-Seeker of the Sierras 



BY 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

Author of "Memorib and Rime," "Songs op the Sierras," etc. 



I SEP ^L 



^"yr.r. ...,,„■ 



FUNK & WAGNALLS 

NEW TOEK : 1884. LONDON : 

10 AND 12 Dey Street. 44 Fleet Street, 

All Rights Reserved. 



^s 






4'^, > 

% 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 



DEDICATED 

TO 

MY FELIjOW argonauts OF 



'49 



PEEFACE. 



At the great Centennial dinner of the Association of 
Fortj-niners on the Fair Grounds in Philadelphia, I 
read a portion of my drama, The Danites^ and won tlie 
thanks of the Association for the jDortrayal of earnest 
manhood " in the brave old days of '49." But General 
Sutter, the discoverer of gold, who presided on this oc- 
casion, insisted that the old man " '49," whom he knew 
and loved, was worthy not only of the leading place in a 
drama, but a whole volume to himself. I then and 
there promised to do the desired work. General Sutter 
furnished me subsequently with many additional notes 
and facts concerning his singular valor, his dreary years 
in the tunnel — the first in California — and his final good 
fortune. 

1 wrote the story and the drama of ** '49 " as soon as 
possible after my promise to do so. The drama is placed 
in the archives of the nation at Washington ; so that 
those who come after us may see the Argonauts as they 
really were, not as represented in the dime novels and 
third-class theatres. The story of " '49 " was published 
in Bret Harte's Overland Monthly. But its publication 
brought out additional facts — aye, romances in part maybe 



VI PREFACE. 

— from many old miners of the Sierras ; so that the story 
is now thrice its original length. And yet it is far too 
short — so short that it is necessarily crude and cramj)ed 
and unpolished. But bear in mind the characters 
themselves were rugged, strong, and hard to master. 
They partook something of the savage splendor of J^ature 
about them, and remained to the end like their majestic 
mountains — abrupt, broken, and untamed. Yet if the 
gold is in the mountains the true miner will hnd it, 
without road or guide. The readers whose love I 
cherish, and shall retain to the end of my toil, will follow 
me through and find the gold, careless of all the rugged 
ways ; for they know well that Parnassus's self is savage- 
fronted. 

Joaquin Miller. 



CONTEI^TS. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Westward, Ho !" i) 



CHAPTER n. 
Over the Plains 14 

CHAPTER HI. 
Two Years 19 

CHAPTER IV. 
In Sierra 25 

CHAPTER V. 
A Fragment 38 

CHAPTER VI. 
" J ust One Little Song, Love " 49 

CHAPTER VH. 
*' I'M A Total Wreck " 58 

CHAPTER VIIT. 
In the Dark 70 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IX. 

PAGE 

Going Away 75 

CHAPTER X. 
So Weary ! 86 

CHAPTER XI. 
Vigilantes lO-I 

CHAPTER XII. 
Gnome-Land 114 

CHAPTER XIII. 
A Cloud op Dust 119 

CHAPTER XIV. 
Out of the Darkness 126 

CHAPTER XV. 
Pure Gold , 133 

CHAPTER XVI. 
The Heiress 140 



'49, 



THE GOLD-SEEKEE OF THE SIERRAS. 



CHAPTER I. 



HO 



! " 



The heart of woman is like the heart of my Sierras — some jfind 
gold there, and some do not. Much depends on the prospector. 

The years 1849-50-52 found that vast region known 
as the Upper Mississippi Yalley one great camp. The 
settlers had poured in from the four parts of the world 
in a v/ar of conquest. Hard and bitter was the unequal 
fight with the savage elements of the new lands. When 
the cyclones swept over and buried the little villages hi 
that early day, no telegraph heralded the settlers' suffer- 
ings over the world, and brought back substantial sym- 
path}^ Silently each hardy soldier stood in line, and 
thousands fell at the post of duty. Disease, cold, heart- 
sickness, each more terrible than the prowling Indian on 
the border, laid hard hold of the silent and patient 
pioneer. 1 know that legions died. I know that all 
suffered, and suffered terribly ; but 1 never heard one 
person complain. 

Nearly half a century has passed. The pioneer of this 



10 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

great valley lias gone forever. The wheels of progress 
have rolled over his grave, and levelled it with the fields 
of golden grain. The silent and hardy pioneer has 
passed into history. Let the historian do his work as 
bravely as did this nniqne cliaracter, and the pioneer w^ill 
stand out on the page a nobler and grander hero than 
any figure in the Spanisli Conquest. 

In the old Greek days the heroes beat upon their 
shields with lance and sword, and, standing up before 
the world, loudly proclaimed their deeds, their valor, 
their victories, their sufi:ering, and their sorrows to all 
who could be induced to listen. Homer's heroes, the 
heroes of the stage — and, indeed, heroes of all dramas, 
from that day to the present — have been so disposed ; a 
loud and pretentious lot. But the American hero is a 
silent man. 

Make a note of this. It is the line that is to distin- 
guish the heroes of the Old World from the New. This 
distinction is to mark the American drama, the Ameri- 
can literature, from that of the Old World. Grant used 
but two words at Yicksburg — " Unconditional surren- 
der." 

But to return to this vast camp, teeming, surging in 
the mighty Yalley of the Mississippi. 

My father, who was the schoolmaster of the little 
settlement where dwelt the remarkable man who has 
since become known to the world as '^ '49," was split- 
ting rails in the woods one Saturday afternoon, near his 
log-cabin, when this tall, strong young neighbor, rifle on 
shoulder and squirrel in hand, came hurriedly through 
the thick wood and stood suddenly before him. There 
was a strange light in his bright black eyes as he spoke : 

^' Squire, they've found gold aw^ay out yonder — six 
months' journey away. Gold, squire, gold in the banks 



'' AVESTWARD, HO ! " 11 

of tlie rivers, in tlie beds of tlie rivers, in the ground 
everywhere !" 

The man bronght the breech of his gun sohdly to the 
ground, throwing down his squirrel and pushing back 
his coonskin cap as my father straightened up from his 
work and stood before him. 

He looked tall and as hardy as the trees about us. lie 
clinelied his fist emphatically, and throwing it out toward 
the far, far West, in the supposed direct io]i of the gold 
fields, continued : 

'^ And I'm going there to get gold for Mary and my 
kid Charlie, squire — get gold for 'em, and get out of 
this fever-and-ager land." 

And then this tall, dark man and my father sat down 
on a ^^ rail-cut" together, and talked almost in whispers 
for a long time. The squirrels chattered overhead and 
leaped from branch to branch, but the man with the gun 
did not heed them. 1 and my two little brothers left off 
building our bark-house in the hollow stump, and stood 
close about our father's knee to listen. This young man, 
Charles Devine, was our nearest and dearest neighbor. 
He had a young wife, beautiful in soul and body as him- 
self. Then there w^as the little boy-baby lying on its 
back and crowing in the cradle. These he would leave 
behind for a year — only one year, at furthest — and boldly 
strike out for the far gold fields of California. 

As they talked together, I heard him chuckle with 
delight as he spoke of soon returning w^ith a great bag 
full of gold-dust, and of pouring it all out in the cradle 
about the chubby feet of his fat, crowing little baby- 
boy. 

'' Only a year, squire. You see, if I don't strike it by 
that time, of course 1 can come back and wrestle with 
the woods here ; and shake with the ager, too, if I must. 



12 '40, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

Yes, Mary is willing, and brave about it, too. Oli, of 
course she'll cry a bit — women are that way, you know, 
squire. But I'll put in the garden truck before 1 start 
next spring, you know. And then she always milks the 
cow herself ; and as the bit of land is paid for, and the 
cabin safe and solid, roof and cellar, why, of course Mary 
— Mary won't — " 

The man's voice began to tremble a bit here, and, 
making believe that he suddenly saw a squirrel in the 
boughs above, he again took up his gun and found 
diversion for a moment in trying to get a shot ; and then 
he soon went away. 

But he had staged long enough to give my father the 
fever also, and before the next spring he, too, was yok- 
ing up oxen, cows, calves, anything that could draw, and 
preparing to fall in with that greatest caravan which the 
world has ever witnessed. 

On the seventeenth day of March three covered 
w^agons, drawn by long lines of yoked cattle — old, tried, 
and patient steers at the wheel and in the lead, with 
bellowing cows and kicking calves between — drew up 
before our^ cabin to take in the little family, the pro- 
visions, and the few household goods that were worth 
transportation. 

It had been arranged, after all, that Charles Devine 
was to go with my father as one of his men ; and so it 
chanced that, when all were ready to start, 1 went over 
with him to his cabin, when he went to say good -by to 
Mary, to take her a little present from my mother. 

There was a bright hickory -bark fire blazing on the 
hearth, for there was frost in the air, and the wind blew 
keen and cold. The little baby-boy lay crowing good- 
naturedly and carelessly in the cradle. 

But the young wife's heart was full and almost ready 



'MVESTWARD, ho!" 13 

to burst, altliongh she attempted to smile as we en- 
tered. 

^^ Well, Mary, my i^mi and — and belt." 

Slie took the rifle from the buck-horns over the 
mantelpiece and put it in his hand. Then she took 
down the shot-pouch and powder-horn, and, as he 
stooped a little, put them tenderly over his shoulder. 
After that she took the belt, with its big sheath-knife, 
from off the bedpost back in the corner of the clean and 
tidy cabin, and, reaching about his waist, buckled it 
there silently. 

'^ Good-by, Mary ; good — good — " 

But she had turned suddenly, and, leaning her elbows 
on the mantelpiece, with her face in an upturned palm, 
the tears ran down like rain, and her lips quivered so and 
she trembled so that she did not dare try to speak at all. 
And then the man backed toward the door by the cradle, 
and, holding his gun in his left hand, he reached the 
other down to the baby. The playful little thing did 
not dream of care, or trouble, or separation, and wdth its 
fat fists doubled, it crowed in his face and kicked up a 
chubby little foot. And so the man smiled through his 
tears, and shook tliat little foot for farewell. Then he 
hurried through the door, and did not look back. But 
1, close at his heels, saw over my shoulder that Mary 
still stood at the mantel, motionless, voiceless, the picture 
of despair. 

The dog came out of the kennel in the corner of the 
yard, and laid a cold nose in his master's hand as we 
hurried away, and then went back. 

And so the good-by Vv'as over. And the stolid oxen 
in the lead were turned resolutely to the West, and we 
rolled away in the wake of the setting sun. 



CHAPTEE 11. 

OVER THE PLAINS. 

We climbed the rock-built breasts of earth ! 

We saw the snowy mountains rolled 

Like mighty billows ; saw the birth 

Of sudden dawn ; beheld the gold 

Of awful sunsets ; saw the face 

Of God and named it boundless space ! 

It was nearly a montli before Devine spoke of his wife 
and baby, and then it was in half whispers to niy 
mother, as we were camped on the banks of the Missouri 
River, binding rafts to carry lis over. 

How he dwelt on every little detail of that separation ! 
Mary leaning there against the mantel, with the tears 
raining down, not saying one v/ord ; the little boy crow- 
ing in the cradle, kicking up his little chubby foot in his 
face ; the faithful dog stealing out to lay his cold nose 
in his hand, and then back to his kennel, as if he knew 
his place was at Mary's side. 

Oh, it would take a full book to follow Devine in his 
quiet talks to my mother, by the camp-fires of the tall 
and silent woman he had left leaning there by the man- 
tel, and that little boy-baby that had thrust up a little 
foot in his face when he should have given his hand ! 

He would not talk to the men of Mary. He would 
not even mention her name to them. Sacred silence ! 
And yet all his tender talk to mother of her and the baby 
was brimful of hope and perfect confidence that all would 
be well in the end. 



OYER THE PLAINS. 15 

" Only a year, inarm — only one year, squire, and I'll 
be by lier side as slie stands there leanin' by the mantel- 
piece, gold or no gold. And I'll snatch that baby np 
out of the cradle and toss it np to the rafters. The 
rascal ! to reach me a foot when he onglit to have 
reached me a little fist !" 

And here the voice would drop very low and tender, 
and the head wonld turn aside, and the man would seem 
to think of something to do, and so get up hastily and go 
out and away by himself. 

What a multitude ! An army ! The world will 
never approximate an adequate idea of that mighty flood 
that burst out over the confines of the border and flowed 
on toward the distant West. 

I say flowed toward tlie far, far West advisedly ; for 
that mighty flood never reached the Pacific. It sank 
down in the deserts. There was no chronicler then to 
take note. Statistics were unknown. For seven 
months' incessant journey we were rarely out of sight of 
new-made graves, and at some camps it was diflicult to 
find room for the tent because of the graves ! 

Little towns have taken their places now, and no sign 
of these graves is to be seen. But oh, the sickness ! — 
the cholera ! — the fevers ! — the heart-sickness ! — the 
despair ! 

And steadily the mighty caravan moved on. Some- 
times the whole Plains seemed one vast sea of covered 
wagons ; then sometimes we would be left in camp with 
no one in sight but our own little company. 

I recall, on one memorable Sunday morning, the tall, 
silent figure of Devine in battle. We were camped on 
the headwaters of the Colorado. He had thus far 
escaped all maladies, and was the most hardy and 
efficient of men. But the fearful scenes around us liad 



16 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

made liim now even more silent and reserved than ever, 
and he rarelj spoke to any one but my mother. 

Our train was known on the Plains as the " Sunday 
train ;" for, under the lead of my pious father, we would 
not, under any circumstances, travel on Sunday. This, 
of course, delayed us, subjected us to much inconven- 
ience, and provoked the derision of irreligious companies. 
But my father ^vas a determined man. He had set out 
to live as a Cliristian on the Plains, and he would have 
filled one of the ten thousand graves by the v/ayside 
rather than for a moment have de2>arted from this pur- 
l^ose. 

On this Sunday morning prayers were not yet over 
when a band of mounted and half -nude Indians came 
like a whirlwind over the sandy eastern hill. They had 
been fired upon by a neighboring camp of reckless whites 
and were furious. 

My father laid down the Book, and, beseeching all to 
remain behind, went out to meet the savages, and, if 
possible, pacify them. They circled about the camp, 
yelled, leaned from their horses, caught up sand from 
the ground, threw it mockingly at ni}^ father, and finally 
discharged a volley of arrows into the neighboring camp. 

In a great hurry, and without his hat, my father 
rushed back into the corral, where he met Devine, 
already armed and at the head of the men, and going 
to the assistance of those in trouble. 

When my father, wlio never fired a gun in all his life 
• — for he was a Quaker so far as doctrines of peace go — 
saw that two men had been shot down and others 
slightly wounded, he looked at Devine, and said, 
sharply : 

^' Let 'em have it, Charlie, if you must !" 

There was a volley from our men instantly, but not a 



OVER THE PLAINS. 17 

single savage unhorsed. The Indians leaned so far on the 
other side of their horses that they were hard to liit. 
However, in the next volley the horse of the great black 
chief was fatally shot, and came flying right in the teeth 
of our men. 

A little way from our corral of wagons the horse sank 
down in the sand, and the great, hairy, black, and nearly 
naked savage lay there, with one leg fastened under his 
dead horse, helpless. He was unarmed, and a dozen 
rifles pointed at his breast. 

Over his shoulder he threw some hot, fierce words of 
command to his followers, and, with a final Parthian 
shower of arrows, they disappeared as they came. 

Then the mighty savage raised his hand to his mouth, 
and gave such a whoop of defiance as no man now can 
give. 

Devine looked at his men, and then at my father at 
the door of the corral. No one of the men ventured to 
kill the defiant savage, and my father did not intercede 
to save him. Why ? He was holding a dying neighbor 
in his arms, and trying to draw the feathered arrow from 
his breast. And so Devine raised his gun and shot the 
giant dead. 

One of the men wound his hands in the wild man's 
hair, and thus dragged him into camp through the white 
sand. Then, when the sun went down, three dead men 
— Cliristians and savage — were laid in the hollowed white 
sand together. 

Devine, the next day, as we moved on, was very, very 
thoughtful. He was even sad, and he remained so to 
the end of the journey. 

His was a singularly sensitive nature. The great mys- 
tery of life and death, the dead men left back there in 
the burning sand of the desert, the black and hairy 



18 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

savage with tlie blazing eyes that he had shot dead while 
he looked him in the face, eye to eye, soul to soal — all 
this made him profoundly thoughtful. 

As we neared the Sierras the roads divided. Some 
men sought the mines and mountains ; others, of a more 
pastoral turn, desired the valleys and gentler pursuits. 
And so, at the base of this mighty wall, as if it were 
God's citadel guarding all Paradise, the last camp-fire 
was kindled. 

We, the few survivors of the '^ Sunday train," were 
about to sejiarate forever here in the sage-brush and 
burning sands of I^evada ! 

" You will go back to Mary soon as possible, 
Charlie ?" said my father, as he held his hand. 

''In one year, squire and marm, I'll see Mary. Of 
course, 1 thought it would only be one year from the 
time we started ; but, you see, it's been a seven months' 
pull, and here we are all tuckered out and poor as rats, 
and not a cent ; and so — But one year, squire, in one 
year I'll strike it and get back to Mary leanin' by the 
mantel, an' — an' the little baby crowin' in the cradle. 
Say, squire, you write her — write her a letter, school- 
master, for me, and say one year more and I'll see baby. 
Good-by — good-by !" 



CHAPTER HI. 

TWO YEAKS. 

True valor knows not valor's name ; 

True valor knows not of defeat ; 

No thing in nature knows retreat, 
But, cloud or sun, keeps on the same. 

If this and succeeding cliapters of the biography of 
Charles Devine are not as realistic and photographic as 
are the opening, it is because I was no longer at his side, 
and had to depend largely on others for fact and incident 
concerning him and his. Yet his is not a phenomenal 
history at all. Were this so, 1 certainly should not 
trouble either myself or my readers with his story ; but 
1 give it as a type of one of ten thousand. 

]VIy father, who settled far away to the north, and 
never saw Devine again, wrote, the letter as desired. 
And it meant a great deal, this writing letters at that 
time. 

As for Devine, he could not w^rite at all — a not un- 
common thing forty years ago. Boldly he pushed right 
into the heart of the Sierras near Dovv^nieville, and went 
to w^ork at once with a zeal that bordered on desperation. 
He could scarcely take time to sleep. With the first 
splendor of the sun bursting over the mighty wall of 
snow about him, he was forth to his work. 

He made few friends. He had little to say to any 
one. His thoughts were all on his w^ife. He could see 
Mary standing there weeping by the mantelpiece ; he 



20 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

wanted to be back at her side to comfort her. He could 
hear that httle boy crowing in his cradle. He wanted 
to go back and pour his bag of gold at the baby's feet, 
and then catch him up and toss him in his arms till he 
touched the rafters. 

But the long, long journey across the boundless desert, 
the weary, weary tramp, tramp, tramp for more than 
half a year, had left the man weak as a child. 

And then the gold was not as abundant as men had 
imagined. Besides, it cost much to live, and the win- 
ter was terribly severe. The water was all locked up 
in ice for long, unbroken months, and this man, so far 
from growing rich in the mines of California, was, in 
reality, becoming destitute — was hungry, starving. 

He saw the seventeenth day of March come and go, 
while he sat by his cabin fire, snowbound and hungry, 
half clad and almost ill, in a mountain gorge of Cali- 
fornia. 

The year was up, yet he v/as thousands of miles away, 
and not an ounce of gold in his empty palm. Soon, 
however, the warm winds came up from the southern 
valleys, and again the earth was appealed to for the 
golden secrets of her bosom. 

A mine was opened in the canon, and at the end of 
two months of prodigious toil, lifting up boulders that 
required the strength of a giant, building up walls that 
required the skill of an architect to make secure, toiling, 
sweating, starving, the man at last reached the bed-rock 
and began to find a few grains of gold-dust. 

But oh, so few ! It was enough to make his great 
heart fail him utterly, this niggardly recompense for all 
his toil. 

But he kept on. "What else could ho do ? There 
could be no turning back. In that early day it took 



TWO YEARS. 21 

money as well as time to make a journey. He had not 
thought of all this. It had seemed to him that he could 
return to Mary at any time. 

But now he knew^ too well how many thousands whose 
hearts had failed them were trying to beg their way back 
to the States. He could not make one of this melan- 
choly band. 

The flowers came out on the hillside, finally, and birds 
sang in the trees about his cabin. Things began to look 
more clieerful. He made up his mind one sultry Sunday 
afternoon that on the next Sunday he would go down to 
Downieville and get some one to write a letter to Mary, 
telling her that he had concluded to make a two-year 
task of it instead of one. 

The mine in the cailon was deep, and promised well. 
Men who passed that way said it was only a question of 
time when he should strike it rich and get heaps and 
heaps of gold. As yet he had not one dollar in his 
purse. He was even ragged, almost naked. His food 
was still of the most frugal kind. 

He laid great plans for the coming summer, how- 
ever. He would get some flaming red flannel shirts, a 
great broad hat, top boots, and a broad belt soon. He 
would employ some strong man to help to wrestle with 
the great boulders in the bed of the caiion just as soon as 
he struck '' pay dirt," and then he would get out all his 
gold before the return of snow and ice. 

These were his dreams and hopes on that sultry Sun- 
day afternoon. 

Suddenly the sky grew dai'k. The birds about him 
ceased to sing. A little brown chipmunk, wdiieh he had 
trained to take crumbs from his hand, came scrambling 
up from the water side in the .canon and clanibered to 
his shoulder. 



22 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

Above him, to the east, the mighty pillars of snow 
stood out above the dark, rolling clouds, as if they were 
not of the earth. Then there was a great sigh of the 
wind ; then silence — darkness. An awful sigh of the 
wind through the eanon again, and then a drenching rain 
burst upon the world ! 

The mine was as level as his cabin -floor the next morn- 
ing. The squirrels were in the trees as before, the birds 
were even more musical than ever. But this man's 
shoulders were bowed as with a load that was more than 
he could bear. 

Only yesterday Mary was not so far away after all — a 
matter of but two or three thousand miles. [Now she 
was millions of miles away. 

The white and eternal wall of snow to the east lifted 
like an inaccessible barrier, cold and forever impassable, 
between them. 

He did not taste food that day. He did not taste food 
for nearly a week. His pick and shovel were buried 
twenty feet in the bed of the canon, and his pocket and 
purse were empty. He did not taste food, because 
there was no food or money, or means of getting either, 
w^ithin his reach. 

Some miners passing up the canon by his cabin con- 
cluded to look in, for the place seemed deserted. A 
squirrel was shelling a pine-burr at the door-sill. 

There on his bed of pine boughs in the corner lay 
Devine, ill, almost dead ! Fever ? Malaria ? Hunger ? 
Heart-starvation ? 

No matter. The man was sick — dying, it seemed. 

It was midwinter before he w^as able to go back to his 
own cabin from Downieville, where the kindly miners 
had taken him to be cared for. 

And what was there at that cabin to return to ? The 



TWO YEARS. 23 

man was loaded down, too, with a debt of obligation and 
honor that was heavy indeed. The second seventeenth 
day of March found this hardj^ and once-hopeful miner 
more despondent than did the first. 

As the spring came on, having contrived, by working 
for others, to pay up his debts, he resolved, in despair, 
to leave this canon, and seek a more congenial spot in or 
near a newer camp not far away, known as Sierra. 

This illness and the obligations it had placed him 
under had proved doubly unfortunate. It had tin-own 
him among generous but reckless men. He felt that ho 
was bound to be social, and sociability in those days 
meant but one thing. And so, as he was now going 
away to a neighboring camp to try his fortunes there, 
what could he do, he thought, but take a farewell drink 
with those who had been so generous and true ? Ah, that 
multitude which no man can number who have yielded 
to the same plausible tempter ! 

And so it was that all drank together again and again, 
and told their secrets to each other, and talked of rich 
mines, of returning home loaded down with gold, till 
they forgot the hunger, the cold, the rags, and the 
wretchedness of the mines. 

For the first time in years Devine was really sociable, 
merry, glad. 

Surely now, in this new camp, he would strike it soon, 
and then go back, loaded with wealth, and stand, a 
strange, bearded man, at Mary's side. 

That night, in all confidence that it would be written 
and forwarded, he dictated a warm, hopeful, and even 
glowing letter to his wife and child. 

With the morning's sun, a roll of blankets on his 
back, a pick and shovel on his shoulder, and with 
bearded face lifted hopefully to the snow-peaks of tlie 



24 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

Sierras, Charles Devine set out to seek his fortune a Httle 
further on. 

A little further on ! What old Californian has not 
heard that expression — heard it, felt it, lived ifc, till it 
became a part of his being ? 



CHAPTER lY 



IN SIERRA. 



My brave woiid-biiilders of the West ! 

Why, who hath known ye ? Who doth know 

Bnt I, who on thy peaks of snow 
Brake bread the first ? Who loved ye best, 

Who holds ye still of more stern worth 

Than all proud peoj^le of the earth '? 

Yea ! I, the rhymer of wild rhymes, 

Indifferent of blame or praise, 

Still sing of ye, as one who plays 
The same old air in all strange climes — 

The same wild, piercing highland air, 

Because— because his heart is there. 

Let lis pass by these first few years in Sierra. Tliey 
are so sad, so like the two years in the desolate canon, 
that it would be a dreary and painful repetition to dwell 
upon them. I only want it clearly understood that this 
man whose biography 1 have undertaken to write did his 
best. 

This camp of Sierra was now an old battlefield of ^-iants. 
Mighty men came here, laid hand on the mountains, 
and tore them down. They led rivers over the hilltops, 
and uprooted whole forests with their hj^draulics and 
mining engines. They fought nature face to face— these 
giants, these horny-handed, tall, and terrible men of '49. 

A few survived. A iew gathered up gold from the 
placers where it had been washed down the mountains, 
and turned their backs forever on the mines — old men. 



2G '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OE THE SIERRAS. 

made old in a single decade, gray and broken from toil 
and care. 

A few, only a few, of those giants went back home. 
The others ? Up on a hillside, where a new forest is 
springing up, and where the rabbits dance all the 
twib'ght, and the quail pipes all day, they have laid 
down to rest forever and forever. The boy with his 
shotgun avoids this little inclosure on the hillside, and 
steps high and hurriedly, and looks the other way, and 
2:>ei'haps wliistles as he passes. 

With two exceptions, the old forty-niners — all save 
the few that returned home — have gone up there on the 
liillside. High up in the sunlight, nearer the gates of 
(rod, and away from the noise and rush and roar of the 
mine, tliey sleep the eternal sleep. 

These two exceptions were old " '49" and his friend. 
Colonel Billy. And then tliere are two old graves that 
are not up on the hillside. But they are down on a spur 
of hill that breaks from the steep and stupendous moun- 
tain, and lifts its rocky back between the cabin of old 
" '49" and the little town at the mouth of the mighty 
cafion. 

A great dead oak lifts its leafless branches above these 
two graves ; the bark is dropping aVvay and falling on 
the unnamed sleepers, and the long gray moss swings 
above tliem mournfully in the wind. This old tree died 
many, many years ago, when these two men died at its 
roots and were buried there. It ought to fall. It ought 
to have fallen long since. But no ; it lifts its long, bare 
arms on high, in mute and naked pity, lone and bald and 
white with age. But more of these tw^o graves further 
on. 

l^obody in Sierra knew " '49's " real name when he 
came, and so, as he was one of the lieroes of '49, they 



IN SIERRA. 27 

simply called him " '49," as many others who had come 
thus early were called in other camps. 

And whence he came no one knew or cared to know. 
Once or twice, when he lirst began to have his periodical 
sprees and was yet counted a bit respectable, he had, in 
a gush of confidence and tears peculiar to warm-hearted 
men wdien first intoxicated, told to a group of fellow- 
carousers a pitiful story about a lone loving wife and a 
beautiful boy-baby in a cradle, waiting for him faraway. 
But as there w^ere so many who had wives and babies 
waiting for them far away, there seemed nothing re- 
markable in this ; and, finding little sympathy, he locked 
up his heart and kept his secrets to himself thereafter. 

But about this time, and before he had made any very 
fast friendship except with old Colonel Billy, then the 
lawyer of the camp, the event happened which put 
«f '49" quite outside of all sympathy or association with 
his fellows. 

Being a man of observation nnd thought, he had 
settled upon a theory as to the source of the rich 
deposits of gold wdiich had made the camp famous, and 
liad acted accordingly. It was his theory that a vein of 
gold-bearing quartz had crossed this canon, or, more 
properly speaking, he had discovered that the little 
stream flowing down and forming the canon had crossed 
a vein of gold-bearing quartz, and out of this quartz 
Vw^ashed down the deposits of ragged and quartz-loaded 
nuggets that lay at its bed about the mouth of the canon. 

This was long before quartz-mining had been thouo-ht 
of. 

Convinced of the correctness of his theory, he located 
his cabin a good distance up the canon, and, having dis- 
covered a lead of white quartz running along the rugged, 
pine-covered back of one of the mighty spurs of the 



28 

Sierras, shooting down into tlie canon, lie began, alone 
and single-handed, with but little money, to drive a 
tunnel into this rocky spur, and try to pierce that ledge 
of quartz on the water-level. 

The magnitude of this enterprise oppressed liis mind 
and made him thoughtful. And then, being by nature 
a head and shoulders taller, mentally, than those about 
him, lie soon found himself in some sort isolated from 
his fellows. 

Besides that, there was something about this tunnel 
that the camp did not understand. They had never 
heard of such a thing at the time. What did the man 
mean ? Did he have secrets of hidden treasure unre- 
vealed to them ? Men are distrustful of that v/hich they 
do not understand. 

But he kept on persistently, j^atiently, at his work. 
Then it began to be rumored that he was rich. And, 
indeed, why did he bore away forever into the earth if 
he was not making it pay ? 

Idlers of the camp began to speculate as to the prob- 
able amount of gold he had hidden away in that old 
cabin, that smoked and smoked ^perpetually alongside the 
trail under the pines on the rugged hillside, just above 
the muddy little stream. 

Soon two well-dressed and rather respectable-looking 
strangers rode into camp, and began to make friends with 
the saloon-keepers and their patrons. They asked many 
questions about the hermit of the tunnel, and, along with 
the rest of the men, sj)eculated largely as to the probable 
amount he had saved up from his w^ork. It w^as com- 
puted to be an enormous sum. 

Now it was that the sad event happened which made 
his isolation complete. 

One night he was startled by finding two men climb- 



IN" SIEREA. 29 

ing down his cliimney. He caught up his gnn, which 
he kept all the time loaded with buckshot. Then, rush- 
ing out as the two men attempted to climb from the low, 
broad chimney by which they had entered, he fired as 
they tumbled from out the craterdike top, and filled 
them both with buckshot. 

The next morning, as some miners came up the canon 
from town to work their sluices, there, imder a broad 
green oak by the side of the trail, and just on the sum- 
mit of the ridge that rose between the window of old 
a '49 's" cabin and the town, they found the two men, 
dead. 

They had tried to creep back to camp. But they had 
only strength to drag themselves to the top of this rocky 
little ridge ; and there, under the oak, the one resting 
his back against it, and the other resting his head in the 
lap of his companion, the two men were dead. 

On what slender things hinge the greatest conse- 
quences ! 

''He was a-holdin' of his head, as if to try to help 
him like ; and both stone-dead." 

This was what Colonel Billy said, in a sort of husl^y 
whisper, to " '4:9,"whenhe told him that morning in his 
tunnel ; for the herinit had not troubled himself further 
than to fire the fatal shots, and then to go back into his 
cabin and barricade his door, and wait the possible 
second attack. But hearing nothing further, he sup- 
posed the robbers, whoever they might have been, had 
decided that they had had enough. And not knowing 
that he had killed any one, possibly not really caring 
very keenly in this case, he had gone back to his tunnel 
to work as if nothing unusual had happened. 

If the one had not crawled into the arms of the other ; 
if they had not tried to go back to town ; if they had 



30 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

not died there by the side of the trail, under the great 
oak, on the top of the Httlc ridge, and on the one pleas- 
ant spot in all the cafion, the camp might not have cared. 

But ^' he was a-holdin' of his head, as if to help him 
like, and both stone-dead." And so the camp pitied 
these men. And as the camp pitied these men, it hated 
"'49." The camp said the men did not mean to rob 
him. The camp said they were jolly good fellows, who 
only wanted to frighten the hermit ; and so it held him 
responsible for their deaths. 

They dug two graves there, side by side, nnder the 
oak, in the rotten white quartz rock, and Is^id the two 
men in them, just as they had died. 

Nobody knew their names, and so no names were 
carved on the tree. But it died all the same. Perhaps 
tliey cut some of its roots in digging the two graves in 
tlie bed of quartz. 

The trail took a little turn after that at this point, and 
kept closer to the stream. We don't like to see a grave 
in our road. And yet we know quite well that every 
one of our roads will end in a grave. 

The trail took a little turn at " '49's" cabin, too. 
Men did not want to meet a murderer face to face every 
day. And so the trail took a '^ cut off " at the ridge on 
which the cabin stood, a little further back from the 
stream. 

No one made any open complaint whatever against 
this isolated man. But he was let alone. And he felt 
this fearfully. As men left him alone, he left men 
alone. The gulf between him and the world, you may 
be sure, did not grow narrov/er as years swept on. 

The ridge that lifted between him and the town was 
like a mighty stone wall, that never could be scaled by 
him. But, worst of all, right on the summit of this lay 



m SIERRA. 31 

those two nameless graves. The white quartz that had 
been thrown out in digging them, and that was heaped 
high over the dead, did not settle and sink down out of 
sight. It did not turn gray or brown or crumble to dust 
under the marching feet of Time. It did not hide down 
behind grasses or weeds or bushes. But bald and white 
and ghastly it gleamed, in moon or sun, rising there in 
eternal testimony against him. 

This cabin of his had but one window in its one dark 
and desolate room. That window had been made to look 
out down the caiion, over the ridge and town, toward 
the pleasant valley far away. This was the one lookout. 
But up before this started the two graves, like ghosts that 
ne^er would go away. 

Yet the man kept on patiently at his work. Now and 
then he had protracted spells of drunkenness. Perhaps 
he was trying to forget the two graves that glared in at 
him through the window. Or was it the tall and beauti- 
ful woman, leaning by the mantelpiece, and waiting and 
waiting far away, that he was trying so hard to forget ? 

He rarely went to town except on these unhappy oc- 
casions. The butcher brought him his meat when he 
ordered it, and the grocer brought him his bread when 
he had money to pay for it. 

By this time he was computed to be enormously 
wealthy. In fact, the camp had grown so envious of his 
good fortune, and so eager to get at the secret of his 
wealth, that two enterprising rascals, Gar Dosson and 
Phin Emens, had secretly started a tunnel from the other 
side of the steep, rocky ridge. They were perfectly 
certain he had found an enormous deposit of gold. 
Would a man work away there alone live, ten, fifteen, 
twenty years for nothing ? 

About this time a little girl — a starved, pinched, piti- 



32 . '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

fill child — wasfoTind roaming about camp with an Indian 
woman, who claimed her as her daughter ; though she did 
not look at all like an Indian. This child would sing or 
dance, or do almost anything to amuse the miners and 
earn bread and money for her mother. 

Thev went from cabin to cabin. They came to the 
cabin of old '''49," and, without suspecting that they 
were doing anything unusual, entered, as lie sat there 
looking out of the window at the two white spots on the 
ridge. 

The desolate man started to his feet. No one save 
himself and Colonel Billy had crossed that threshold for 
nearly a quarter of a century. At first he was angry — 
very angry. And tlien he was glad — very glad. His 
heart went out to this little girl. He was so glad they 
had not heard about the dead men. He had grov^n 
morbid during all these years. He feared some one 
might tell the cliild, and make lier shun him. And so 
he treated her witli all the tenderness of a father. 

By and by she disappeared. This nearly broke his 
heart. They had been such friends. At last he found 
that she, with her mother, had been taken to the Indian 
Reservation — to the Reservation to die ! For the first 
time in more than twenty years this singular man fas- 
tened up his cabin and went away. He bought a horse 
in the valley, and rode night and day till he reached the 
Reservation. 

The mother w^as already dead — if mother she was — and 
the child dying. He took the little skeleton in his arms, 
hid her under his blanket, skulked through the post to 
where his horse stood tethered, and, mounting, bore the 
dying creature back to life and health in the mountains. 

Soon a smoke was seen curling up from '' '49's'' cabin 
in its old tired fashion, and the miners knev7 he had 



IN" SIERRA. 33 

come back. It was a matter of indifference to all, of 
course. Men spoke of the fact only as folks speak of 
the weather. 

a J49?5 -j^rj^^ gg^^^]^ |-Q Colonel Billy one evening as this 
child stood between his knees : 

'' Why, Billy, she is twenty carats ! Yes, she is 
twenty carats fine, Billy !" 

But old Colonel Billy, who had less sentiment than 
whiskey in him, only called her " Carrots" in answer to 
the eulogy of his friend ; and so " Carrots' ' she was called 
by the camp after that. But " '49," with loving adroit- 
ness, succeeded sometimes in twisting this name into 
'^Carrie." 

By this time there had come into camp a certain, or, 
rather, uncertain, old woman with her daughter ; and, 
later, they were employed at the saloon of Gar Dosson, 
to decoy miners to the gaming-tables and the bar. • 

And yet it was whispered that the girl was not the 
daughter of '' Old Mississip," as the woman was called, 
but that she was one of the survivors of the Mountain 
Meadow Massacre, whom the old woman for a trifling 
j)resent had purchased from the Indians. 

Socrates, perhaps the wisest of the wise fools of old, 
said that the only wholly happy being is the convalescent. 
In this truth I find an explanation for the unaccountable 
calm and tranquil tenderness that now took possession of 
Carrie. After the terrible scenes just passed, one would 
say that she should have wept herself away and died of 
grief. On the contrary, she never spoke of the past, or 
seemed to think of it at all. Day after day she grew 
stronger, and day by day took longer walks up the steep 
hillsides to gather wild flowers for " '49," and such 
fruits and roots as the ground and bushes bear in that 
altitude. 



34 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

One evening, as ^' '49" came home from his tunnel, 
where he now worked incessantly from dawn till dusk, 
he saw a man stooping and stealing away, in the twi- 
light, from the low window of the cabin. Who was tliis 
man ? And what did he want ? Was it the gold which 
he was supposed to possess, or the girl ? 

There was a battered old bulldog, with three legs, a 
hare-lip, and no ears or tail to speak of, down on 
Butcher's Flat. 

This dog was old, and seemed almost useless now. 
But he had been terrible in his day. At night he had 
been used for years as the one and only watch at the ex- 
press-office, where he slept, or pretended to sleep, with 
only one eye shut, on a heap of gold dust as big as a 
Mexican's wash-bowl. By day this enormous brute had 
been used by the butchers to catch and throw Mexican 
cattle. 

But now that the glory had departed from the camp, 
and the gold and the butchers with it, the old and ugly 
bulldog became a sort of pensioner, limping like a neglect- 
ed soldier from door to door, eating the bread of charity. 

" '49" went down and got the bulldog and brought 
him into his cabin. A great leather collar was buckled 
about his neck, and a heavy log-chain bound him to the 
bedpost. 

The old dog liked this. He knew that this prepara- 
tion meant war ; and he was fond of battle. 

He became as savage as a hunted grizzly. Let even a 
rat cross the roof, or rasp the boots or tin cans around 
that cabin, and the old warrior would be in arms in a 
moment. K a stranger neared the place, he would roar 
like a Numidian lion. Yet to the two inmates of this 
dark, low, and ever-stooping cabin, he was tenderness 
personified. 



IK SIERRA. 35 

The man and tlie young girl were drawn closer to- 
gether now than ever before. In the tranquil twilight, 
after his hard day's work in tlie tunnel, he often hinted 
at vague bits of his own life ; of a wife left behind, of a 
little baby-boy m the cradle. Ah, yes ! he would see 
that baby sometimes, " when he struck it in the tun- 
nel," the old man woukl say, with a sigh, at the end of 
his story, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 

He seemed to think he would still find that baby in its 
cradle. Years and years had passed, but still it was only 
a baby to him. And why had he not returned ? "Why 
had nearly a hundred thousand men in those mountains 
never returned ? 

He told her of a promise made his wife at marriage. 
It w^as that each should on Christmas Eve sing a certain 
song, and so think of the other. No matter where they 
were or what transpired, they would each^ at the 
moment of midnight, begin this song. 

This explained to the girl why the old man had at the 
very first tauglit and made her sing a certain old song on 
Christmas Eve. And now she, too, became confidential, 
and began to tell a story of the desert, of murder, and 
scenes too terrible to dwell upon. But when the old 
man looked at her sceptically, and shook his head, she 
stopped and said, '' Perhaps, after all, it was only a 
dream," and never mentioned it again. 

And so the first few months after the return from the 
Reservation were very tranquil — calmer, higher, holier 
than any of the former days. 

But this did not last. The man must go to town to 
get his pick sharpened and his drills hardened. The re- 
sult is easily guessed. He fell into his old ways. Soon 
Carrie was seen once more among the rough men late at 
night, helping, coaxing, comforting the tottering old 



36 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

man, and trying to get him back to the cabin. Then the 
hard and heartless ones began again to banter and bully 
her ; and as of old, when but a child, she answered back, 
and often ga^e as much as she received. She, too, w^as 
fast falling back to something harder than her hard life 
before. 

Dosson and Emens watched every word and action of 
" '49." They v/ere still certain that he was a miser, 
with hundreds of ounces of hoarded gold, and they drove 
their tunnel on their side of the ridge straight for the 
centre with all the force and energ}^ that their strong 
arms could command. Soon '' '49" came to know^ of 
this. He was almost wild with rage. Then he wept 
like a child. 

'' Only to think ! After nearly twenty-five years !" he 
said to Carrie. Then ]ie v/ent on a protracted spree, 
from which tlie girl reclaimed him only after a long and 
patient effort. 

Dosson and Emens were now men of importance in 
the camp. They had opened a grocery and gambling- 
saloon. This soon w\as the headquarters of the camp, 
and all the miners gathered together and gambled here. 

And "'49" came here also. Yet between himself 
and Dosson and Emens there was at best only an armed 
neutrality. Old Colonel Billy, the bosom-friend of 
" '49" in all his unhappy carousals, was accustomed to 
shake his head and say, solemnly, that some one would 
" die with his boots on" yet, and that it would not be 
" '49." 

And who was Colonel Billy ? A man who had never 
been known to refuse a drink in his life — a true Cali- 
fornian. He was also a very old and a very rickety 
man. He had once been a great lawyer, and had pulled 
many of the boys through after one of their periodical 



li?" SIERRA. 37 

rows. But Colorxel Billy had come in tlie spring of '50, 
and so stood only as a sort of "lieutenant to this old 
veteran general who had come in the fall of '49. 

But perhaps these are distinctions that only Cali- 
fornians can understand. 

How these two old men loved each other ! Was it 
because they had nothing else to love ? Was it because 
the world had gone on by the other way and left them 
standing here alone like two storm-blown pines on a 
windy hill, that they leaned toward each other ? 1 do 
not know ; but I like to see the love of old men. Like 
to see it ? 1 revere it. ' It is the tenderness and the 
holiness of a Sabbath sunset. 

Dosson and Emens, as 1 have said, worked in their 
tunnel by day. By night they looked after their drink- 
ing and gambling den. They did everything to make it 
popular for "the boys," and they got monstrous old 
" Mississip" to deal faro for them. 

This old woman's daughter was almost as coarse and 
heartless as her wretched old mother. " And that is put- 
ting it pretty hard on Belle ^ Sip,' " said Colonel Billy. 

Sometimes they had dancing in this '^Deadfall." 
"Women were scarce ; and, indeed, it was impossible to 
get decent women to enter here. And so it was that 
Carrie was persuaded, almost pressed, into service. She 
danced well, and to the miners no evening seemed com- 
plete without her. 

Gradually but certainlj^ this little creature was sinking 
down into the mud and the slime from which '^ '49" had 
rescued her, and no hand reached out to hold her back. 
Kow and then Dosson gave her a piece of money. He 
did not know that this went to buy bread for the old 
man, every cent of it, while she had not clothes to keep 
her from shame ; but so it was. 



CHAPTER y. 



A FRAGMENT. 



How stranger the half-hidden story ! 
How fairer the far stars of heaven 
When seen through the clouds, tempest-driven. 

With storms streaming over their glor^"- ! 

The events that follow were sudden and rapid in their 
changes. This makes them necessarily fragmentary, for 
1 was not a witness of all. And so it is that I prefer to 
leave some things to the imagination of the reader rather 
than to draw npon my own. 

It is a matter of record that one of the old French 
families of St. Louis — Creoles — was in that unfortunate 
train of emigrants who were set upon and slaughtered by 
the Danites, or Mormons and Indians, in what is known 
to the world as the Mountain Meadow Massacre. 

At that time this family owned a piece of land on the 
outskirts of St. Louis. It was almost worthless then ; 
but in years it came to be of prodigious value, and. eager 
search was made for the heirs. 

The story ran, that out of the many children who 
escaj^ed massacre, the dark, low-browed Belle '' Sip,-' of 
Sierra, could be named as the heir. 

Of course, this was only a vague rumor. But it was 
enough to inspire Gar Dosson — who had even made 
advances toward poor, ragged Carrie— with a singular 
regard for the dark, Creole-looking girl, and he paid 
eager court to her accordingly. Yet at the same time he 



A FllAGMENT. 39 

loved — If lie was capable of love — tlie wild and wily 
little girl of the woods far better than he did the low- 
browed and sullen Belle. And Belle knew it, too — for 
women liav^e a singularly direct way of going to the truth 
of such things — and so she hated and abused the little 
child-woman bitterly. 

Meantime, in St. Louis, Judge Snowe, an old and able 
lawyer, was at work. He had suddenly become informed 
of the presence of this girl Belle, in Sierra, and was now 
about to send, with all speed possible, a young and eji- 
terprising confidential friend to find her out and inform 
her of her ^^ossible fortune and position in the world. 

The young man, the confidential friend, Charles 
Devine, was the son of a widow (a California widow, so 
called ; for her husband had gone to California, and had 
never been heard from afterward), and a bright young 
man, too, in some things. Yet, perhaps, he had in most 
things more heart than head. His mother, a pious 
gentlewoman, had a nameless terror of California ; for 
had her husband not perished there ? Hence she could 
not think of letting her son go on this expedition. But 
go he must, and so he had decided to leave without her 
knowledge of his destination. 

On the evening fixed by the good-hearted though 
gruff old lawyer for his secretary's departure, a gayly- 
dressed young man entered the widow's humble home 
and asked to see her. 

The door had been opened by a wdiite-headed old 
negro, who lingered about and lifted his nose high in the 
air whenever he came near the 3^oung man, as if he 
sniffed some unusual odor. 

This modern youth of fashion was the fast friend of 
Charles Devine, whom he supposed had just set out 
on his hurried visit to the heart of the Sierras. And 



40 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

fast friend he was, too, in more senses tlian one. For 
the high boot-heels of Thomas Giillj were often none too 
certain in their tread. He was now engaged in rolling a 
cigar between his thumb and finger, and fumbling in his 
pocket for a match. The old negro lolled about, wagged 
his woolly head, and put np his hands in silent protest. 

'' Where's yom* missus, Sam ?" asked the visitor. 

'' Gone to prayer-meetin', sah. ^' 

" Gone to prayer-meeting, eh ? Well, reckon I'll 
wait till she gets back. Here' s a half dollar. Bring me 
a match. ' ' 

The negro twisted, and hobbled about, and finally said, 
with hesitation : 

*' Gemmen don't smoke in a lady's parlor, sah." 

The man merely smiled as he handed the servant his 
shining hat, after finding a match in his vest pocket 
and lighting it. Money had been appropriated at the 
Bank. He had come to accuse his fellov/-clerk, the 
widow's son, and save himself, now that Devine was gone. 

He puffed his cigar almost to a blaze, threw himself 
into a chair, and flung his legs almost as high as his 
head, laying them across the corner of the table and on 
the old family Bible. 

The negro snatched the book away, almost upsetting 
the visitor in doing so. 

^' Want to make it more comfortable for your legs ; 
thought de Bible might hurt your legs," observed the 
old negro, as he dodged a hymn-book and limped out of 
the room. As Gully sat arranging his faultless attire, 
Mr. Snowe, with Sam at his heels, entered the parlor. 
The old lawyer laid down his bag, and kept on talking 
to the negro. 

" J^ot here, Sam ? Why, he promised to meet me 
here ; promised to be at home here, waiting for me." 



A FRAGMENT. 41 

*^ That old fox here ?" muttered Gully, over his 
shoulder. " 1 feel like jumping through tlie window." 

Again the old negro began to limp and stutter. 

*' I'm very sorry, Massa Snowe. But he is not here. 
P'r'aps dat gemmen," pointing to Gully, '' know whar 
he is, Massa Snowe. He goes with ' im a good bit. Lor', 
1 wish he war a gemmen," and he limped away. 

'' Ah, good-evening, Judge Snowe, good-evening. 
So delighted to see you," said the man of faultless ap- 
parel. '^ Yes, Charley has gone — gone suddenly to 
California. He could not bear to say good-by to his 
mother, so he sent me, you know, to say good-by for 
him." 

The old lawyer picked up his bag and came toward his 
informant, grulf and crabbed. ^' But he has not gone. 
Only to-day he promised to meet me here, and he will 
be here." 

^' He will not be here. 1 saw liim to the depot my- 
self." As Gully spoke, Charley Devine, singing 
snatches of songs, entered the parlor. 

^'r(?2^ back?' 'cried Gully. 

*'Back again, like a bad penny," laughed Devine. 
" You see. Gully — you see, I was waiting there at the 
depot — hie — such a crowd ! Well, while 1 was waiting 
there, 1 saw the game going on. All down ! Down 
your bets ! Monte ! Faro ! Roulette ! Forty to one 
on the eagle-bird. Forty to one on the eagle-bird at 
roulette !" 

At this Gully began to be interested. Devine did not 
as yet perceive Mr. Snowe. 

'' Well, well ?" cried Gully, eagerly. 

^' Foity to one on the eagle- bird, just think of it ! 
Forty times five hundred — twenty thousand dollars — and 
you in with me, you know." 



42 '40, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIEKRAS. 

'' Why, lie has won twenty thousand dollars," thought 
Gully. " A fool for luck ! By the holy poker, that 
will jnst make np the loss of the bank. We were both 
in together, you know, Charley," he eagerly added, 
aloud. 

'^ Yes, both in together, you know. Well, I just took 
my five hundred dollars in my list and I marched straight 
up to that table, and 1 planked her down on the eagle- 
bird — every cent — and cried, ' Roll, roll ! Turn, turn, 
turn ! Five hundred dollars on the eagle-bird ! Twenty 
thousand dollars or nothing ! Turn, turn, turn ! ' " 

"Well, well?" 

'' Five hundred dollars on the eagle-bird ! Twenty 
thousand dollars or nothing ! Turn, turn, turn !" 

'' Well, well?" 

" And he turned, you know, and — " 

"And, and—?" 

" And the eagle-bird lost !" 

" Oh, the fool !" growled Gully. " Oh, the reckless, 
drunken gambler !" 

The old lawyer, now approaching Charley and putting 
his hand on his shoulder in a kind, fatherly fashion, 
said : 

" Charley, Charley, j^ou are drinking again. You 
will break your old mother's heart !" The old lawyer 
with all his roughness had a tender heart, and again and 
again had forgiven and restored Charley when he had 
" fallen a victim to his only failing." " I will save him 
yet, there is good stuff in him." 

" My mother !" exclaimed Devine, in a startled tone. 
" Don't say a word to her ! I — I — 1 will reform now." 

" Well, well, Charley," said Snowe, taking the young 
man's hand, " you have promised me that before and I 
have trusted you. 1 trust you again. Maybe I am a fool 



A FRAGMENT. 43 

for doing so. Prove tlmt I am not. I must trust you 
now. About this business of mine. Come, be sober ; 
be a man. You promised to start on this business this 
very niglit. You are tlie only man that understands the 
case. You are the only man 1 can trust. Can you go ? 
Are you fit to go % Do you remember what you have to 
do ?'' 

Charley Devine nervously passed his hand across his 
face. 

''Why, of course, I do. A girl — a child of one of 
the wealthy old Creole families — a lost girl that old black 
Sam had charge of — one of the orphans of the Mountain 
Meadow Massacre — now an heiress — a great estate wait- 
ing for her. And you think you have a clew — you think 
she is in the mountains near Sierra." 

Tom Gully listened intently. 

" An heiress — a lost girl in the mountains ! An 
heiress !" 

" 1 am to go and search for her. My salary you are 
to hand over to my mother till I return," said Charley, 
finally. 

" Right, my boy !" exclaimed Snowe ; " and now you 
must be off. Here is more money ; now do not play the 
fool again and lose it. Sam !" 

" Yes, Massa Snowe." 

" You are sure you would know that child still ?" 

*' Sure, Massa Snowe, sure ! I would know dat chile 
— why, I would know dat chile in — Jerusalem ! Why, 
Massa Snowe, she'd know dis ole black face, sure ! 
She'd come right up to dis ole cripple now." 

"Ah, but you must remember it is now more than 
twelve years since the Mormons and Indians murdered 
lier parents and took her from your arms on the plains, 
and she was scarcely six years old at the time." 



44 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERllAS. 



''But I'd know her, sure! And she — she'd know 
dis ole black face. Dar ain't many of my kind, Massa 
Snowe, up in dem white mountains ; an' den, oh, Massa 
Snowe, she'd know my songs ! She'd fly to me like a 



bird, she v/ould !' ' 



" Your songs !" exclaimed the lawyer, thoughtfully ; 
'' did you sing much to her, Sam ?" 

'' Allers, allers, on dem ole plains, Massa Snowe. 
Why, she knowed my songs, every one ; she'd sing a 
vus an' den I'd sing a vus ; and you see, if she hear me 
sing now, she'd come a runnin' right to me — 'fore God 
she would, Massa Snowe !' ' 

'' That will do, Sam. Now, Charley, you must be 
off, and at once ! Mind, they are trying to impose a 
false claimant on us, and it's hard to disprove their 
claims. But this old negro's evidence will be conviction 
strong as Holy Writ. Now, Sam, you can go ; and 
remember, if this girl is found, your fortune is made." 

'' I don't v/ant no fortune, Massa Snowe. I wants to 
see dat chile once before I dies — poor, poor baby in de 
mountains." 

The old negro, with his sleeve to his eyes, had hobbled 
back to the door and was disappearing, when the lawyer 
looked up from the papers he had taken from the bag 
and spoke : 

'' I say, Sam, do you think there are any marks by 
which she can certainly be identified ? Listen to this, 
Charley. Give your special attention to this." 

The negro stopped and threw up his hands. Then he 
came back and stood before the lawyer, who began to 
write as the old cripple began to talk, 

" Marks ? Marks, Mcissa Snowe ? Marks dat she will 
take wid her to her coffin ! Yes ! Why, dar come de 
Mormons, painted red, and liowliii', and a-choppin' an' 



A FRAGMENT. 45 

a-sliootin', an' a-stabbin'. Oh, Massa Snowe, it makes 
me sorry ; it makes me sick to t'ink of it. A whole 
heap of women and babies heaped togedder in de grass 
and dusty road, dead. And den dis httle gal a-nestlin' 
np to me, a-hidin' in ole Sam's busum when I lay like 
dead in de grass. And den Avhen all was still, an' de 
Mormons came up friendly like, she crept out, an' de 
blood was a-runnin' down her arm ; den dey took her off 
and away from her ole black Sam ; an' all her folks was 
dead ; and dere was a great bloody gash, dar !" 

The old negro was almost wild with excitement as he 
told this, and pointed on his arm to the place of the 
wound. Then he hobbled back to the door, and out, as 
he wagged his head and said, as to himself : 

'^ Know her ? Know dat chile ? I'd know dat chile 
in Jerusalem, I would !" 

"That, Charley, is the child you are to find," ob- 
served Snowe. " A large tract of land on which a city 
has since been built was the property of her parents at 
the time of the massacre, and she is the sole heiress. Of 
course there are many pretenders to this fortune ; but 
this 1 know is the real heiress, and I am quite certain, 
from what I heard last week, she has drifted into the 
mines of California, and can be found there. I have 
gone over this pretty often, Charley, and now I'm done 
with it," said the old lawyer, as he arranged his papers, 
sealing them with red sealing-wax. 

" 1 see a point ! It's the biggest thing out — a mine 
of gold — a regular bonanza mine to anymanwdio has the 
nerve to work it," said Gully to himself. 

''Charley," observed the lawyer, ''one word more. 
You see, in the great Mountain Meadow Massacre, the 
Indians, led by the Danites, killed all except the chil- 
dren. The little orphans, forty or fifty in number, w^ere 



4G '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

taken up by the Mormons and Indians, and in a few 
years were almost forgotten. 1 have sent agents search- 
ing everywhere and questioning abont every one 1 could 
hear of, but hitherto 1 have been always disappointed. 
But now 1 have a new hope, and with care it shall be- 
come a reality." He stopped talking here, paused a 
moment, and said : " It is a beautiful and very strange 
superstition of the Indians, that they mnst not kill a 
negro. An Indian of the Plains will not kill a negro. 
In this case, they spared old Sam only because he was 
black. I have the greatest possible hope ; for if the 
child can remember anything at all, she can remember 
old black Sam. Charley, it shall be your task to find 
her." 

^'A delightful task!" cried Charley. '' I shall so 
like to get out and up into the mountains, into the heart of 
the Sierras. Such scenery ! Such air ! The smell of 
the fir and tamarack ! An' I shall reform there." 

The old lawyer turned, took the lad's hand, and, look- 
ing him long and earnestly in the face, as he had often 
done before this, shook his hand cordially : " And now, 
Charley, you are to go directly to Sierra, and sit dov^n 
there quietly in the heart of the mountains. Get all the 
information you can about her ; get acquainted with her 
quietly ; get her confidence ; find out what she remem- 
bers of the old negro, and all ; and when you are con- 
vinced that she is really the heiress, I will come with 
black Sam to satisfy the law that we have made no mis- 
take. Come, it's just the enterprise for a man of nerve 
and heart. And you really don't need much head for 
this, you know," and the lawyer langhed good- 
naturedly. " All you want is heart." And in an 
envelope he laid the papers on the table. 

*' You say she's very rich ?" observed Charley. 



A FRAGMENT. 47 

" The ricliest girl, perhaps, in California. A city has 
been built on her land ; there is no computing her 
wealth." 

Gully's eyes feasted for a moment on the papers. It 
was a hungry stare — a stare that was held in fascination. 

" You can goat once," said the lawyer. 

^' The biggest thing in America ! Go ! I see a fortune 
in it — a fortune, do you hear ? Go, find this girl. Find 
her, woo her, win her, marry her ! And don't let her 
know she is an heiress until it's all over," suddenly 
exclaimed Gully. 

The lawyer started. '' A friend of yours, Charley ?" 

" His oldest and best," said Gully ; then confidentially 
to Charley : '^ Woo her, win her, wed her before she 
knows anything about her good fortune ! Charley, I 
congratulate you ! i say that is the biggest thing in 
xlmerica ! Go ! Do as I tell you ; but be sure you take 
plenty of perfumery. Few women can reason, but all 
women can smell. Take plenty of perfumery." 

As he spoke Mrs. Devine entered. She cast a be- 
wildered sort of glance around, her eyes resting on her 
embarrassed son as he said : 

" Oh, mother ; I am so sad, yet so glad you have come 
before I start for the Sierras." 

'^ The Sierras ! Charley," she gasped. " I thought, I 
thought—' ' 

At this moment, Gully, who had been watching for 
an opportunity, adroitly exchanged the contents of the 
envelope by substituting some worthless papers which 
were in his own pocket. 

^' Yes, mother 1 — I did not want to tell you myself, 
but now I must. I go to California to-night." 

'' No, no ! Not there ! Not to that place, of all 
places in the world. Not there — not there, I implore 



48 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

yon." And the woman clung to lier boy as if slie 
would hold him back from some dreadful abyss. 

Gully sealed and handed Charley the package. In so 
natural and matter-of-fact a way was this done that even 
the shrewd old lawyer suspected nothing wrong. Gully 
was an expert in low villainy. 

^'Mother,! must go," said the lad. '^ There is no 
avoiding it. I must go to-night — now ! Why should 
you have such a horror of California ?" 

^' My son, hear me," cried the anxious mother, as she 
drew her boy to her side. "Your father is buried 
there." 

" Mother, I will find my father's grave." 

'^ Only time to catch dat train, Massa Charles," called 
out the negro. 

Then Charley, after one prolonged embrace, tore liim- 
self from his mother's arms, and disappeared. 

The gruff old lawyer was seized with a cough, and 
used a handkerchief to his eyes, as the poor woman bowed 
her head, weeping as if her heart would break. The 
handsome and dashing Tom Gully, hastily thrusting the 
package of papers deeper into the breast of his broadcloth 
coat, took his departure, chuckling wickedly as he strode 
through the dark to the depot. '' Fool ! Go on your 
fool's errand ; but you will find the bird flown, for I 
shall be there before you, if my wits serve me rightly. 
You are not Tom Gully's match in winning the heart of 
a girl." 



CHAPTER YI. 

*^JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 

Then sing the song we loved, love, 

When all life seemed one song ; 
For life is none too long, love ; 

Ah, love is none too long. 

And when above my grave, love, 
Some day the grass grows strong, 

Then sing the song we loved, love ; 
Love, just that one sweet song. 

So when they bid you sing, love, 

And thrill the joyous throng. 
Then sing the song we loved, love ; 

Love, just that one sweet song. 

This is the little melody whicli old ^' '49" had taught 
Carrie to sing in concert with himself every Christmas 
Eve. This is the song that he and his far-away wife had 
agreed to sing together at the hour of midnight, tliough 
seas and continents divided them. And he, for his part, 
had kept his promise for nearly a quarter of a century. 
He could not know how she had kept hers. He only 
knew that he was gray and old and broken now, and 
the sad refrain took on a deeper meaning each year as he 
drew nearer to the grave. 

" For life is none too long, love ; 
Ah, love is none too long." 

And yet he still dreamed of the waiting young wife at 
the door of his Western cabin home ; sa\y more clearly. 



50 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

it seemed, than ever before, the little boy-baby crowing 
and tossing its arras in the cradle ; still fondly dreamed 
from day to day, from year to year, that he would strike 
gold yet, and return and take them to his heart. 

So the old man struggled on, hoping he would strike 
it yet in that damp, dripping old tunnel. He could not 
work so hard now ; and more than once these three — the 
old man, Carrie, and the great bony, slobber-mouthed 
dog — were out of bread. And when they had nothing 
to eat, old '' '49" was only too apt, by hook or crook, to 
have something to drink. 

It was this wretched poverty, as we have seen, which 
drove Carrie to singing and dancing once more for the 
miners. This took her to Dosson's saloon, and well- 
nigh kept her there, where she had to put up with all 
the insults of Old Mississip and endure the sneers and 
insolence of the reputed heiress, her so-called daughter. 

It was about this time that Charles Devine first came 
to this camp. He had not come directly to Sierra, as 
the old lawyer had desired. The grief of his mother at 
their separation made such a profound impression on him 
that he had resolved first to find his father's grave, if 
possible ; or at least some trace of his life or death in the 
mines of California. 

By persistent search he found that he had set out for 
this same mining camj^ many and many years ago, 
had entered it, and, so far as he could learn, had never 
left it. 

On the brow of the hill looking down from the dusty 
stage road through the dense pines he met two w^orn and 
bearded miners in shirts and boots. Shirts and boots 
and beards seemed to be about all that was visible of 
them, while they had their blanket, picks, pans, and 
kettles on their backs. 



'*JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 51 

He stopped these prospectors long enough to inquire 
if they knew a Mr. Devine in that camp. And while 
they stood staring at him from behind their beards, he 
proceeded to tell how, many years before, Devine had 
come into that camp — a tall, handsome gentleman — and 
never was heard of afterward. 

The two men exchanged glances. Then the elder of 
the two took him by the sleeve, led him to the edge of 
the road, and bending a little to look nnder the hanging 
boughs, pointed with his brown and hairy right hand 
away down toward the mouth of the canon to two little 
white spots by the side of a great dead oak on a little 
rocky ridge, and said : 

'' Stranger, thar's two strangers' graves." 

Seeing how this had moved the young man, the 
younger of the two thought to say something kindly ; 
and as they hoisted their packs a little higher on their 
backs and set their faces up the hill, he said back over 
his shoulder, as they climbed up the steep road : 

" Yes, them two came to this camp and never left it ; 
two tall, handsome fellows, years and years ago." 

" What's their names ?" 

''J^obody never knowed, stranger. But everybody 
was powerful sorry for 'em ; they died under that dead 
tree ; and one was a-holdin' of the other one's head, 
as if to sort o' help him, like." 

That night, some drunken miners passing up the trail 
below the two graves were certain they saw a strange 
figure moving about on the rocky ridge ; and so they 
Rtepped high and hurriedly on their way. 

'^ '49," looking out of that low little window, also 
beheld something that night. But he did not mention 
the circumstance to any one. In fact, he saw the object 
but dimly, for his eyes were old and weak now. And 



52 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

then the trees^ at last after so many years, were grov7- 
ing np between his window and these two ghastly white 
graves that had so haunted him all these years. He was 
glad of this. Oh, he was so glad ! 

He had always felt that, so long as two bald w^liite 
graves kept watch there at the mouth of the canon, he 
could never pass out of it to the civilized world beyond. 
These graves were as the tops of two mighty pillars of a 
great gate that shut him up in prison forever. 

But now nature had come to help and comfort him. 
The oak was dead ; but a growth of j)ine, as is always 
the case on the California foothills, was taking the jDlace 
of the departed oak. They would soon hide these two 
glaring graves utterly now at last. 

This man, w^ith his morbid memories, felt that he 
could breathe more freely, stand up straighter, step more 
firmly w^hen these two graves that had lain there, in 
moon or sun, storm or shine, for fully twenty years, 
should be hidden forever in the green foliage of the 
pines. 

TJie next day young Devine, after a night of watch- 
ing and prayer on the rocky ridge by the two nameless 
graves, resolved that with the approach of evening he 
would enter the saloon where Belle was to be found, and 
forthwith make his mission known. 

He dressed himself with care ; for, in addition to being 
always elegant in his apparel, he felt somehow that he 
ought to approach this young girl with every considera- 
tion and token of respect. 

It is just possible, too, that there might have been at 
that time a vague idea that it would be best for him to 
win this wealthy girl's heart, lift her to his position in 
life, and at the same time secure his own fortune, as 
Gully had advised. Who can guess what were his 



''JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 53 

tliouglits, with the picture of his dead father running 
counter-current through his brain, as he approached the 
saloon on that memorable night ? 

A motley crowd it was that he found there, loud and 
coarse and vulgar ; not at all like the men of the olden 
days of gold. He wore a tall silk hat— a dangerous 
thing for a stranger to do on entering a mining camp. 
Men stared at him. They were not absolutely uncivil, 
but they certainly held him in great contempt from the 
moment they set eyes on his hat. He wished to speak 
to some one, and seem sociable. Still thinking of his 
father with tenderness, and seeing old Colonel Billy, with 
his battered hat on his left eye, he accosted him, and 
asked if he ever heard of a Mr. Devine who came to 
California in '49. 

" A Mr. Devine ? A Mr. Devine ? "Was he a gos- 
pel sharp ? A hymn-howler ? Ho offence, 1 hope. 
Thought he might a' been, you know, from the name," 
said Colonel Billy. 

" ^o, no offence," said the young man, relaxing the 
fist that half doubled as the colonel spoke. 

'' Did you ever know a man by the name of Devine ?" 
he asked of a tall, bony old man who stood on the edge 
of the crowd, and who swayed like a leafless pine that 
had died and refused to fall. 

The old dead pine stopped swaying a moment, and 
answered: ^^ Devine ? Devine? Any relation to — ?" 
and the bewildered old man lifted his head heavenward in 
dazed and helpless inquiry. Then shaking his head he 
was blown back into the crowd, while a sympathetic knot 
of old miners looked at the young man and shook their 
grizzly heads, but did not answer. 

'^ Looking for a needle in a haystack, young man. If 
that was his name, it's just the best of a reason that it 



54 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

ain't his name now. You see we baptize 'em over and 
give 'em new names, titles, and sich, when they come to 
Californj," observed a man with a mashed nose and a 
short leg. 

There was a rustle of silk at that moment, while a 
murmur of admiration ran through the crowd. Old 
Mississip, with her daughter, the dark, low-browed 
Creole girl, entered and took their places at the faro- 
table. 

This girl was supposed to belong to one of the oldest 
and most aristocratic families of the South-west. It was 
a moment of intense interest to Devine. 

'' And why is this young lady called Belle Sippy ?" 
he asked of the short man, with the mashed nose. 

*' Don't know, 'cept it's 'cause her mother's name is 
Mississip." 

The man limped away from this stranger, who seemed 
to be a walking interrogation point, and over his 
shoulder referred him to Colonel Billy ; and Colonel 
Billy, holding on to the bar lest the floor might move 
from imder his feet if he attempted to stand still, re- 
ferred him to old " '49." 

^' He's been here since these hills was a hole in the 
ground ; and what he don't know about anybody ain't 
v/orth knowin', stranger. Ask him when he comes ; 
he'll be here in this 'ere saloon with Carrots, by and 
by,' ' contimied Colonel Billy. Then spitting cotton and 
making many signs of being very dry, he went on : 
" But it's my opinion, as a lawyer — my professional 
opinion — that she's no more her daughter than I am." 
And he nodded to Belle. The old colonel blinked and 
blinked as he spoke, and at the end of his speech looked 
at the young man as if seeking to find a name for him. 
He looked first at his feet, then up and up till he saw 



'-JUST ONE LITTLE SONG, LOVE." 55 

his hat. Tlien with a laugh he blurted out, ^' No more 
her daughter than I am, Mr. Beaver." 

" By Gol !'' chimed in a capper, '^ a dandy come to 
town !" as he looked np from the game, over his 
shoulder, at the stranger. 

*' Dandy Beaver ! Gentlemen, Mr. Dandy Beaver !" 
said the colonel, setting his white hat on his head. 

*' Dand}^ Beaver ! Down your bets. Dandy Beaver," 
shouted the dealer, as he gayly tossed his cards ; and the 
man, looking straight at the newcomer, leaned forward 
and playfully tapped the cheek of the girl. 

" And in such a place as this, and with such people ! 
What hideous familiarity ?" Devine fairly caught his 
breath and fell back amazed at tlie audacity of Dosson, 
as he touched the girl's cheek. 

*'A11 down! The game's made! Koll !" Again 
the coin clinked, the cards flew in the air, and the pretty 
Spanish women and gayly-dressed Mexicans smoked their 
cigarettes and played with desperate intent. Such scenes 
as this are common enough in mining towns to this day. 

'' But where's Carrie ?" exclaimed old Colonel Billy. 
*^I didn't come here to gamble and drink. 1 came 
here to see Carrie and hear her sing. Now, where is 
Carrie ? That's what 1 want to know." 

'' And who is this Carrie ?" queried Devine, who was 
anxious to introduce himself to the notice of Belle. 

'' Oh, she's a wretched, ragged thing, that hain't got 
a cent," was Belle's reply, accompanied by a contempt- 
uous toss of the head. 

''Got no father, got no mother, got nothin'," said 
Mississip, savagely. 

The game had stopped. There was a storm outside. 
Perhaps these people were wondering where that child 
was. It was an awkward pause after the woman spoke 



56 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OE THE SIERRAS. 

60 bitterly. The people began to roll cigarettes and fall 
back and gather in gronps about the saloon. 

" That's a 'Frisco chap," observed Dossoii. 

"Take a drink, mister?" said the woman, pointing 
to the bar. 

'' No, thank yoii, 1 don't drink.'' . 

"Don't drink! Well (hie) he's not from 'Frisco," 
hiccoughed Colonel Billy. 

" You are the proprietor of the — of the City Hotel ?" 
said Devine, civilly, as he approached nearer, endeav- 
oring to be courteous. 

" 1 am the proprietor of the City Tavern, the only 
hotel; and 1 lets the rooms, bet your sweet life," re- 
plied the virago. 

" Rooms ! — (hie) — rooms ! Rooms not quite big 
enough for bedrooms (hie), and a little too big for 
coffins," said Colonel Billy. 

" Can 1 spend the evening in the hotel ?" 

" Certain, certain ! That's what this 'ere hotel was 
fitted up for. You see in the Sierras we likes to be as 
comfortable and as nice as in 'Frisco. But this parlor is 
used for a good many things, l^ow, this is the parlor 
of the City Tavern. This is the ladies' sittin'-room." 
Here a Spanish lady bowed. " This is the gentle- 
men's sitting-room." Here Colonel Billy bowed pro- 
foundly, adding, "It's the eatin' house, and it's the dead- 
house." 

"Head-house?" 

" Ay, dead-house." 

" Eight there ; I've seed seven of us laid out to stiffen 
on that 'ere table," said Colonel Billy, looking grim and 
ghastly at the recollection. 

" Oh, yes ; but what's the use of a killin' of men in 
the house. It always interferes with the game. If you 



JUST ONE LITTLE SOKG, LOYE. 



57 



wants to kill 'em, kill 'em outside. Down yom^ bets ! 
All down ! Try your luck, mister ? There's the ace of 
diamonds, as pretty a card as ever held a twenty-dollar 
piece." 



CHAPTEK Yll. 

'^i'm a total wkeck." 

We are wreck and stray, we are cast away, 

Poor, battered old hulks and spars, 
But we hope and pray, on the Judgment Day, 

We will strike it, up there in the stars. 
Though battered and old, our hearts are bold, 
Yet oft do we repine 
For the days of old. 
For the days of gold — 
For the days of Forty-nine. 

'^ All down ! Down your bets ! The game is made ! 
Eoll !" roared Mississip, as slie sat at the faro-table 
flourishing a card over her head. 

" Mississip, where is Carrots ? I didn't come here to 
gamble and get drunk. 1 came to see lier and (hie) hear 
her sing,' ' said Colonel Billy, as he spread both his broad 
hands on the table and leaned on them heavily, empha- 
sizing his former question. 

"Where's Carrots? Out with old ' '49,' when she 
ought to be here at work. Roll !" Colonel Billy 
tottered away, muttering over his shoulder aside to the 
miners, " 1 tell you, boys, we ought to do somethin' 
for that little gal, even if she is a saucy imp, and all 
that. Old ''49' can't keep her any more. You all 
think he's rich, eh ? Think he's got a mountain of gold 
(hie), eh ? Well, boys, he's got somethin' dearer than 
gold away back yonder in the States — a wife and a baby. 
Why, if he had money he wouldn't stay here a minute. 



59 

No, lie's too poor to even feed Carrots. He's all busted 
Tip, and about starvin' himself. That old tunnel. 
Humph ! She has to go to sing and dance to get a bit 
of bread. Total wreck, total wreck." And the red 
nose of Colonel Billy, having ran its course about the 
room like a comet in the heavens, came back to the bar, 
whence it started, and entreated the barkeeper for a 
drink. 

Meantime, through a door by the bar, sauntered in the 
best-dressed man in the Sierras. He was fragrant as an 
apothecary's shop. His broad Calif orni an hat rested a 
little on one side ; a pistol showed on his hip and a 
bowie-knife in his belt. 

Charles Devine started as at an apparition. It was 
Gully — yes, Tom Gully. Tom a^^proached the girl 
familiarly, and sat down at the card-table as if he owned 
the place. The red comet completed another circle of 
the den, and came back to the card-table. 

'^ Oh, go 'way and don't bother the game." 

^' Put him out. Lucky Tom, put him out !" cried 
Mississip. 

" You had better order your coffin (hie) before you 
try it. I'm one of the old 'uns, I am. Don't care if 
you do carry a bowie. 1 came to this 'ere camp too early 
in the mornin'. Why, yon only came here last month, 
and you think you own the town. Put me out ! I 
should radiate. Used them things for toothpicks in '49 
and spring of '50," hiccoughed the colonel, as Gully laid 
a hand on his bowie-knife. 

'' Well, Colonel Billy, if he wants to put you out, he 
will," piped in Belle, from the other side of the table. 

" Your humble servant, miss, but he don't want to ; 
he don't want to (hie) put me out," bowed the colonel, 
politely. 



60 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

" No, no^ lie don't want to ; do you, dear ?" leered 
the girl. 

'' iNot if lie behaves himself, my darling," answered 
Gully, with considerable familiarity. 

''Well, all 1 want to know is, Mississip, where' s Car- 
rots, and why don't you pay her for singin' and dancin' 
here well enough for her to get clothes like this one's ? 
Carrots does all the work and Belle wears all the 
clothes." 

" Because Belle is a lady and Carrots is nothing but a 
little saucy Injin, and don't deserve good clothes. And 
now d'ye mind that ? The Injin!" cried Mississip. 

''Injin, Injin! Well, she's the whitest Injin 1 ever 
seed. A red-headed Injin. Say (hie). Belle's blacker 
than forty Carrots." 

" Now you — " and with a fearful oath Gully was on 
his feet, liis hand on his bowie. 

" Why don't you pull it ? I want to see it ; hain't 
seed a bowie since spring of '50. Bah, you coward !" 

As the two stood glaring at each other, a voice was 
heard above the storm outside — a feeble, piping voice, as 
if some one was trying to sing and be merry under diffi- 
culties. 

" That's Carrots ! That's our Carrots, boys !" cried 
the colonel. 

" That hateful Carrots. The men all turn from me 
to hear her sing. The hateful singecat. 1 despise 
her !" muttered Belle. 

"That's Carrots! That's Carrots; and old "49,' 
my chum, ain't far off," chuckled Colonel Billy, as he 
turned from Gully with contempt and indifference. 

" 1 don't know what ' '49 ' sees in her," says Belle 
spitefully to the comet, as in its orbit it passed by where 
she sat. 



Gl 



'^ Don't see what ' '49 ' sees in lier f Why, he sees 
in her soul (hie), heart, humanity. She's the sunshine 
of his Hfe. She's the champagne and cocktails of this 
'ere camp, too." 

And here entered Carrots, singing snatches of song, a 
bow and arrows in her hand, her dress all torn, her hat 
hanging by its strings over her shoulders, and her hair 
unkempt. Flourishing her bow and arrows, she cried 
out to Colonel BiJly : 

^' Knocked a chipmunk clean out of a pinetop. Colonel 
Billy. Yes, I did ! Old ' '49 ' was with me up yonder. 
Yes, and he's come home by his tunnel to give my 
flowers to old sick Jack. Be here in a minute." 

Mississip strode across the room toward tlie girl, and 
the miners gave way before her. 

'' She's broken up the game. Here !" And she 
seized Carrots by the hair. 

" Oh, oh ! Now, you jest let up ! Let down ! Let 
go !" cried the girl. 

'^ Give me that, and tell me where you've been !" 
roared the virago. 

'' Oh, please, Mississip ! Please let go my bow and 
I'll never, never, never — " and here the girl slipped 
from the clutches of the old monster, with her bow and 
arrows still in her hand. Placing an arrow in her bow 
quick as an Indian might, she drew it on Mississip : 
^^ You old hippopotamus ! Notion to knock you like I 
did the chipmunk." 

'' You imp ! You Injin !" cried Oully, from behind, 
as he cuffed her and took the bow and arrows, and angrily 
and hastily placed them out of her reach behind the bar. 

" Now, you ever dare touch that bow and arrows 
again — " began Mississip, but suddenly stopped, and 
resumed her seat. Old '^ '49" had entered the room. 



62 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'^ Well, Colonel Billy, old pard, how are you ?" 

'^ Still spitting cotton," the Colonel replied. ''Dry, 
very dry. Total wreck, and dry." 

'' Dry ! Ha, ha ! Well, I ain't. That old tunnel 
goes drip, drip, drip. I'm not dry. I hain't been dry 
for nigh onto twenty years, Colonel Billy." 

" Well, I've been dry for nigh onto a thousand years, 
seems to me." 

" Billy, you just wait. Just wait till 1 strike it in 
that tunnel, and we'll go to New York and buy — buy 
the Astor House. Yes, we will, bar and all. " Thus the 
generous sentiments of the heart led many of the noblest 
of the pioneers on the way to their ruin. 

'' Good, good ! But you won't strike it. No, you 
won't never strike it while 1 live. Why, if I wait for 
you to strike it in that old tunnel, I'll be so dry (hie)— 
well, I'll be evaporated." 

^' There's gold in there. 1' ve been here since '49, and 
I'd ought to know. I'll strike it yet, Colonel Billy. 
And you won't evaporate." 

'' Yes, 1 will evaporate. We all v/ill. Won't we, 
boys?" 

'' Well, then, come, let's have a drink. Come, boys," 
and '' '4:9" crossed over to the bar with the boys. " See 
there, boys ; she did it. Took its eye out with the bow 
and arrows I made for her. There, barkeep. Have it 
for your dinner ? Might have a meaner one. Yes, you 
might have a worse dinner than a chipmunk, barkeep." 

Colonel Billy spit cotton furiously, for the whiskey was 
poured out, and each man had his glass in his hand. But 
as no one in the mines ever drank till the man who treated 
lifted his glass, the old colonel was suffering horribly. 

^' Why, when I came here in '49, that 'ere squirrel 
would ha' been a dinner fit for a king. Tough times, 



'^i'm a total wheck." C3 

tlien, I tell you. Tlicni's tlio times, too, wlien wo used 
to have a man for breakfast ; women were so bad, and 
wliiskej v/as so bad, Colonel Billy. Yes, yes ! But 
now tliat IVe got that tnnnel, and am goin' to strike it 
right away, I Vv^ouldn't eat chipmnnk — no." He raised 
his glass, and then dropped it again. The faces of the 
miners and Billy expressed the keenest disappointment. 

Standing there with his glass in hand and resting on 
tlie bar in most provoking irresolntion, to the dismay of 
all, he began again : 

'^ And wlien 1 do strike it and get back to my wife 
and little blue-eyed baby in the cradle on the banks of 
the Mississippi — " Here Carrots clung closer to him — ■ 
" Oh, I'll take you, my girl. Oh, never do you fear, 
I'll take you. And I'll take a big buckskin bag of gold- 
dust, yellow and rich and beautiful as your beautiful hair, 
my girl. And we won't let 'em know we're corain'. 
No. We'll just slip up to the cabin there — slip up 
through tlie corn, and jast slip in quiet like, while my 
wife's leanin' on the mantel and lookin' the other way, 
and then we'll crawl up to the little cradle settin' in the 
middle of the floor, and we'll pour the gold down in the 
cradle at that baby's feet as it lies there a-crowin' , and 
my wife will turn and see it all — gold, gold, gold !" 

" ' '49 ! ' ^ '49 ! ' Old pard ! You mustn't think of 
that, you know. Your head ! You mustn't talk of 
the States. You know it makes you (hie) wild to talk of 
the States." 

^^ I forgot, 1 forgot. Forgive me, boys. Here's to 
— to — to — her." 

And, as he lifted his glass, he turned, and for the first 
time saw young Devine. 

'' 'Frisco chap, eh ? Have a drink, stranger ?" 

'^ No, thank you ; I rarely drink." 



64: '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 



** Earely drinks! Well, lie ain't quite square," 
mused Colonel Billy. 

Gully suddenly looked up. As his startled eyes fell 
upon the stranger he became pale as death. Then he 
started from the table. 

'' Charley Devine !" he muttered between his set 
teeth. '' By all that's fiendish, he's found this out-of- 
tlie-way place, without his papers, and it will not be like 
him if he is not without money, too. Well, here's for 
the game of bluff. Fortune favors the brave," and, by 
a supreme effort, he cried, *' Hello, Charley." 

*' Gully ! who'd have thought of seeing you here," 
cried Devine. " Lucky Tom Gully, 1 heard them call 
you. Well, I'm the lucky man this time, for I'm flat 
broke." 

'^ Good ! Flat broke ! He does not even suspect 
me," said Gully to himself. " I'm your friend, 
Charley, and will help you. But what's the trouble ?" 

'' Well, you see, 1 was very mellow that night 1 
started ; I had gambled, you know, and when I got 
sober the next day I found that 1 had either lost the 
papers or, in the hurry of my leaving. Judge Snowe 
had given me the wrong package. Only some old 
papers of yours, w^here you had been sued for a tailor's 
bill! Well, you know how gruff and stern Snowe is. I 
couldn't go back ; and, then, I wanted to try and find 
something about my father ; if possible, to find his 
grave. And as I knew the name of this place, 1 at last 
managed to get here. But how is it you are here ?" 

'' Treat an old miner ? Been here since '49. Spring 
of '50. Treat an old miner ? Total wreck — total 
wreck," observed the comet, as it came around in its 
orbit between the two men. 

^' Billy, you're drunk," and Gully pushed him aside. 



"I'm a total wreck." G5 

''No offence, stranger, no offence. Total wreck, total 
wreck. ' ' 

And the fiery comet swept on around in its orbit to 

*' And you come here to mine ?" queried Devine, as 
he looked Gully steadily in the face. 

''To marry." 

' ' To marry ? Why, there are no marriageable ladies 
here in this dreadful place, are there ?" 

'' There is one marriageable lady, and 1 am engaged 
to her." 

" I congratulate you." 

And the frank and unsuspecting young man gave the 
other his hand. 

" It's queer. Carrots," said " '49" to the girl, who 
had been looking curiously at the stranger. " The new 
one looks square now. But that Lucky Tom is three-cor- 
nered. He is as triangular as a dinner-gong. Let's see 
what' s goin' on. ' ' 

The old man rose up, and Carrots danced across before 
the miners, and stopped suddenly in front of Devine. 

" Stranger, hello ! What's your name ?" 

'' Well, my little lady, this man here. Colonel Billy, 
says my name is Mr. Beaver. Ha, ha ! Mr. Charley 
Beaver, then. Now, what's your name, my little girl ?" 

" Carrots !— just Carrots. That's all." 

'' Good-evening, sir," says " '49." 

" Good-evening, sir. Carrots ! Queer name. Eh, 
sir?" 

" Yes. You see we call her Carrots, because — well, 
because her hair is like gold, sir. Twenty carats fine, 
and all pure gold. That's why, sir. And sing: why, 
she sings like a bird. When 1 strike it in my tunnel 
I'm goin' to take her back with me to the States, sir. 



CG '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

to tend and sing to my little bahy. Have a drink, Mr. 
—Mr.— Charley Beaver V 

"Well — thank you. Don't care if I do now. It's 
damp out of doors. Then 1 want to know you better, 
sir. Yoa look to me as if you might be the king of 
these Sierras. Yes, 1 will drink with you. " 

'' That's right. You see I'm old "' 'd-O.' The boys 
all know me. I'm goin' to strike it in my tunnel next 
week, and go back to the States. I'm tired of this. 
Tired, tired. I want to see my wife and baby." 

'' Why, what part of the States ?" 

Again the comet had made the circle. It swept in 
between the two gentlemen — a way it had — as if it knew 
a gi-eat deal more than it pretended to. The colonel laid 
a hand on the young man's shoulder. 

" Stranger ! Mr. Charley Beaver. Don't, don't you 
never git him on that. He's a little — " And here 
Colonel Bill tapped his head gravely. " Y^ou see, he's 
been waitin' so long and been hopin' so long, it's turned 
him jest a little. No. Never let him talk about that. 
He's all right on other things, but not that. Never, 
never let him talk of the States, stranger — never of a 
wife and a wee bit of a baby in the cradle." 

'' Well, then, I won't ;" and he turned to " '49." 

" Tell me, where did these girls come from ?" 

'^ That's more than the oldest of us here can tell," 
answered " '49." " Y^ou see these mountains were full 
of people once. Full, like a full tide of the sea, when 
we first found gold here. The tide v/ent out, and left 
the driftwood and seaweeds and wrecks. These are 
part of them — I am part of them." 

" But Carrots — where did she come from ?" 

"Don't know, I say. She was first seen, a mere 
baby, beggin' about among the miners with some Injuns. 



**i'm a total wreck." 67 

They took the liijims to the Reservation ; the Injuns 
died, and 1 went down and got my little Carrots and 
brought her back to the mountains, or she'd have died 
too.'' 

^' And when was this you first saw her among the 
Indians ? Spring of '57, eh ?" chimed in the comet, as 
again in its orbit it poked its fiery nose betvv^een the 
men. 

"Yes, guess it was," says "'49." "He's got a 
memory. Was a great lawyer once." 

" Yes ; and don't you know, ' '49,' how we first called 
Carrots ' The baby ' ?" 

" Yes ; and do you remember the time she stole some 
raw turnips ?" 

" Yes ; and ate 'em, and got the colic, and like to 
died ?" 

" Yes ; and Poker Jack got on his mule to go to 
Mariposa for the doctor." 

" Yes ; and got into a poker game, and didn't get 
back for four days." 

" Yes ; and the doctor didn't come, and so the baby 
got well. " 

'* Just so. Just so, ' '49 ' ;" and the comet crept 
on, shaking its head a bit at the memory of departed 
days. 

" Thank you. And the other one, ' '49 ' ?" 

" Well, that mout be her child ; but 1 guess she got 
picked up, too, by old Mississip. But, you see Belle, 
she's stuck up. Guess she's got blood in her. I don't 
like lier at all like 1 do my little Carrots." 

Devine was thoughtful for a moment, and then said to 
himself : 

" This can't be the girl. Wo.ter finds its level. She 
has sunk to the kitchen. The other one is the lady. 1 



68 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

will talk to Gull J. He seems to be most intimate with 
lier. What does it mean ?" 

'' What, ain't goin' to bed, are yon ?" said " '49," as 
the yonng man turned away. 

"Oh, yes, ' '49.' Let him go. You'll talk too 
much, and have one of your spells again," cried little 
Carrots, as she clung to the hand of her only friend on 
earth. " Come, let's go up to the cabin." Then she 
darted back behind the bar and stole her bow and 
arrows. 

" Come here. Carrots, and give us a song, and then 
we'll all go," said an old miner. 

" Yes, a song," shouted the miners in chorus. 

'' 1 ain't got no song," said Carrie, pouting. 

" Yes, just one song for the boys, Carrots, and we'll 
go up to the old cabin." 

" Give us ' The Days of Forty-nine,' " they all 
shouted. 

" Shall I, "49 ' ? Will you, boys, all join in ?" 

" Yes, yes." 

" 1 will assist," said the comet, clearing its throat. 

" All right. Join in the chorus all of you." And, 
smoothing down her storm of hair, she sang in a clear, 
sweet voice, while every miner roared in chorus : 

" We have -worked out our claims, we have spent our gold, 
Our barks are astrand on the bars ; 
We are battered and old, yet at night we behold 

Outcroppings of gold in the stars. 
And though few and old, our hearts are bold ; 
Yet oft do we repine 
For the days of old, 
For the days of gold — 
For the days of Forty-nine. 
Chorus. — And though few and old, cur hearts are bold, etc. 



*'i'M a total AVliECK." 69 

" Where the rabbits play, where the quail all day- 
Pipes on, on the chapparal hill, 
A few more daj's, and the last of us lays 

His pick aside, and is still. 
Though battered and old, our hearts are bold ; 
Yet oft do we repine 
For the days of old, 
For the days of gold — 
For the days of Forty-nine. 
Chorus. — Though battered and old, our hearts are bold," etc. 

" Bravo !" shouted the miners, while some groped in 
their empty pockets, and shook their heads mournfully. 

'' Come, Carrots, we must get back to the cabin," said 
^' '49," starting to his feet. 

'' And may 1 not come to the cabin, too, some day, 
sir?" asked Devine. 

" You will be as welcome as the warm winds of these 
Sierras, sir." 

"But we've got a bulldog tied to the door,'' said 
Carrots. " Got it for him," pointing to Gully. 

" 1 will come, dog or uo dog," laughed Devine. 

"We drink water out of the same spring with the 
grizzly bear," said " '49." 

" Drinks water ! Bah ! Like a boss !" chipped in 
the comet. 

"I've got a great tunnel up there. I've bored half a 
mile into that mountain, sir." 

" I v/ill come." Then a sudden impidse seized upon 
Devine. " I — 1 — May I not come to-night ? I am a 
stranger, and poor, and — " 

" Poor, and a stranger ?" and " '49 " grasped his hand. 
' ' You are my guest. And when you are ready we'll go. ' ' 

"I'm so glad," said Carrots, aside, and she began to 
brush and fix herself up. " I like the looks of him. 1 
wonder if he likes the looks of me ?" 



CHAPTER YIII. 

IN THE DARK. 

The gold that with the sunlight lies 

In bursting heaps at dawn, 
The silver spilling from the skies 

At night to walk upon ; 
The diamonds gleaming with the dew 
He never saw, he never knew. 

A STRANGER and friendless, young Devine was only 
too glad to accept the hospitality of old "'49." The 
three, dripping with the storm, cold and hungry, crept 
together up the canon, and into the miserable old cabin. 
All were silent. The young man had not a dollar in his 
pocket, and the frugal breakfast told him but too plainly 
how poor was his new-found friend. But " '49," as 
usual, was rich iji hope, and soon his glowing accounts 
of the possibilities of the old tunnel tired the youth ; 
and before noon he led his new partner deep into the 
mountain, and there, by the dim light of the dripping- 
candle, instructed him in the mysteries of gnome-land. 

And it was liigh time, too, that he had some one to take 
the pick from his now feeble and failing hand. 

How the pick clanged and rung now against the hard 
gray granite and quartz ! There is no intoxication like 
that of the miner's, who is made to feel that the very 
next blow may make him a millionaire. This old miin 
was an enthusiast, on this one subject at least, and he 
imparted his enthusiasm to his new partner. 

And yet, the young man was not acting without great 



IN THE DARK. 71 

deliberation. lie soon found out who tlie ^^ marriage- 
able young lady" was to whom Gully was engaged, and 
decided that his post of duty was right there in the 
camp, as close to the side of the heiress as might be. 
He had at once written to the old lawyer in St. Louis ; 
imd also to his mother, telling her truly what there was 
to tell, tenderly speaking of the two white graves on the 
rocky ridge which he so often gazed upon. 

He was confident that the lawyer, Snowe, and, per- 
haps, his mother, would come to him at once. Yet the 
place was remote from railroads, and the mails were few 
and far betvv^een, so he must patiently wait. In the 
mean time, penniless as he was, what better could he 
possibly do than work while he waited ? 

'Weeks, months, stole by. The old man was able 
merely to hobble about novv^, and rarely ventured into 
the damp, dripping, and dreadful tunnel. The youth, 
too, was breaking under his toil and the scant living. 
His clothes were in tatters. The sharp stones had cut 
his boots to pieces, and he was literally barefoot. And 
there was no sign of gold. Every evening he would take 
down to the old cabin sj)ecimens of the last rock he had 
wrenched from the flinty front of the wall. These old 
'' '49 "would clutch in his trembling hands and turn 
over, and examine with his glass. Then he would lay 
them down with a sigh, shake his head, and, lighting his 
pipe, would sit there by Carrie and gaze into the fire in 
silence. 

Young Devine was becoming fearfully discouraged. 
Perhaps the old man was, too, but no sign was permitted 
to escape his lips. 

Meanwhile the enmity between the parties in the cabin 
and the parties down at the saloon was not permitted to 
die out. 



72 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

Trust a woman like old Mississip to keep hatred alive 
between men. 

The degradation of Devine had brought new indig- 
nities, so he resolved to attempt nothing more till help 
arrived from St. Louis. Ah me ! but he was weary of 
waiting. 

He was almost naked ; he was bent and broken from 
toil ; he was hungry ; he was literally desperate. Yet he 
could see that Dosson and Emens were at work every 
day in the tunnel on their side of the spur ; and their 
energy somehow impelled him to toil on wdiile strength 
was left to him to lift a pick. 

Once he heard a dull, heavy thud. He put his ear to 
the wall before him, and he could hear the stroke of 
their drills against the granite. He now knew that only 
a narrow wall of a few feet divided them. 

It was idle, vain to hope, that in that narrow wall could 
be found the fortune for which '' '49" had toiled so long 
and patiently. The young man was now utterly dis- 
couraged. Despair was aj)proaching close. He could 
not, he would not, attempt another blow. 

That evening, as usual, he picked up the nearest 
fragment of rock, and taking his pick on his shoulder 
crept out of the tunnel, determined to return no more. 

As he passed out of the mossy and fern-grown mouth 
of the tunnel, it seemed to be dripping more than ever. 
It had been a hot day, and he surmised that the water 
came from the melting snow above, on the stee^D moun- 
tain height. 

Down at the cabin, with some flowers in her hand, 
stood little " Carrots." She had grown almost to woman- 
hood, and looked so lovely now. She kept arranging 
the flowers, holding her pretty head to one side, and now 
and then looking up the trail as she talked to herself. 



IN- THE DARK. 73 

^^ Hiimpli ! No dandy Charley now. No black coat, 
no black pants, no high hat now. Oh, he's the 
raggedest man in the mountains, and that's saying he's 
pretty ragged, I tell you. And I do believe he's 
sometimes hungry. I've gathered him these flowers. 
He likes flowers. We've gathered lots of flowers 
together. I'll put them on his table out here, in the 
door-yard, under the tree, where he and ' '49 ' eat their 
dinner, when they have any dinner. Poor little Carrots, 
that Mississip says is so bad ! 1 wonder if 1 am bad ? 
1 do lie, that's so ; I do steal a little ; but 1 am not mean. 
There, Charley, is a kiss for you on the sweet flowers." 

And so talking to herself, and arranging the flowers, 
the child did not see that silent and gloomy old '' '49" 
had just returned to the cabin, and stood there be- 
fore the door. Poor broken and desojate old miner ! 
And here let me correct a popular error : 

Some one has said that these old Californians kept the 
secrets of their previous lives, and took new names to 
conceal their questionable past. 

Oh, no ; not for that did these men close their lips 
to their fellows. But the baby at home, the wife wait- 
ing there — these were their gods. Around these they 
drew the magic circle of desolate silence. No man 
there, save in the hour of death, when gold and mes- 
sages were to be given up to be taken to them by the 
trusted partner, talked of his love or his little ones. 

This home, hearthstone, far away, was a shrine that 
lay in the innermost heart of the temple, where day and 
night these strong men knelt and worshipped. 

And so do not wonder that " '49," when sober, never 
talked of the ]3ast to this stranger. 

Once, twice, thrice had the boy attemp)ted to lead the 
miner up to the subject of the white graves out yonder 



74 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

on the rockj ridge ; but eacli time, almost savagely, lie 
turned away. 

And it was a delicate subject for tlie boy to talk upon. 
For who could care to talk of a father who had died a 
felon ? Somehow, from what the men said on the hill 
as he first came into camp, or from their manner of say- 
ing what they did, he came to think that that tree had 
something to do with his father's death. He wanted to 
know of a certainty if the two unfortunate beings buried 
there were hanged on this dead oak under which they 
lay. But '^'49" would answer not one word touching 
the two graves that glared there in the October sun. 
And so in his heart the young man whose name now had 
crystallized and shaped itself as in mockery of his 
present sad plight into that of '' Dandy" or '^ Dandy 
Charley," resolved to ask Colonel Billy, and find out all 
the facts possible concerning his dead father ere his 
mother reached the rough mining camp. 



CHAPTEE IX. 



GOING AWAY. 



Over the mountains and down by the sea, 
A dear old mother sits waiting for me, 
"Waiting for me, waiting for me — 
A dear old mother sits waiting for me. 

And waiting long, and oh, waiting late, 
Is a sweet-faced girl at the garden gate ; 
Over the mountains and down by the sea, 
A sweet-faced girl is waiting for me. 

On this last evening, when the wretched h'ttle party 
rose np from a miserable dinner, the old man went 
into the dark corner of his cabin, and sitting by the 
sooty fireplace, he moodily smoked his pipe. Carrie 
wandered away alone np on the hillside, among the rocks, 
still warm with departed smishine, and gathered wild 
flowers in the twilight. 

Bat young Devine took np a short pine board, a pick, 
and axe, and silently set out down the trail, as if he w^ere 
going to town. He left the trail on the rocky ridge and 
turned aside to the two graves under the blighted oak, 
and there, with his axe, cut and cleared avv^ay the trees 
and bushes that had been trying for twenty years or 
more to hide them from view. 

Then he took up his pick and dug a hole at the head 
of and between the two graves. In this hole he set the 
pine board. Then he raked in the dirt, and to make it 
more firm and sohd, he heaped some stones about the 
foot of it, and beat them dov/n with the pick. The 



76 *49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

steel clanged on the flinty quartz, making a strange 
sound in the gathering twilight. 

Old Colonel Billy, who, when sober enough, put in 
his time panning ont in the edge of the muddy little 
stream np above, and not far from the month of the 
timnel driven by Dosson and Emens, chanced to be pass- 
ing on his way home just then, and was startled by the 
clanging of the steel against the flinty stone. He looked 
np, and seeing the bushes cleared away, and ^' Dandy," 
whom he had named, and whom he had early learned to 
like, leaning over the head of the graves, hammering on 
the stones whh a pick, he came stumbling up over the 
rocks, and stood for a moment by his side, silent with 
wonder. 

Then seeing a black pencilled inscription on tlie white 
pine board, he stooped on his hands and knees and read : 

^' To THE Memory 

OF 

Charles Devine and Friend." 

The old colonel drew his rheumatic legs up under him 
as fast as he could, and rose. He looked curiously at the 
young man for a long time. Then he brushed his left 
palm against the right, and his right against the left, 
then dusted them again. Then stepping back and down 
toward the trail a pace or two, he looked up the stream 
and down the stream, and then at the young man leaning 
sadly on his pick-handle, and said : 

"'Friends of your^n?" 

"Yes." 

The long pause that followed was painful to both, and 
the old colonel again attempted to tear himself away, and 
took another step or two backward and down tov/ard the 



GOING AWAY. 77 

trail. But tlie strange conduct of this young man, the 
unaccountable sadness of the fine-cut face that stood out 
in profile against the clear twilight sky, as he looked 
up from where he rested below, chained him to the 
spot. 

And then it seemed to this old man that this was a 
sort of innovation — a species of trespass. What right 
had this stranger to come here and dig up the dead past, 
and set an inscription over the dead of this camp ? Who 
but he and his old partner, old '' '49," knew aught of 
these two graves or their occupants now ? 

At last, lifting a boot with its ancient wrinkles and 
3^awning toe to a rock on a level with his left knee, he 
rested his elbow on this knee, settled his bearded chin 
into his upturned palm, and pushing back his battered 
old white hat, exclaimed : 

^' They desarved it ! Yes, they did ! No disrespect 
to your feel in 's. Dandy. But when men go for to 
climbing down honest men's chimbleys, when they are 
asleep, for to rob 'em, 1 say pepper 'em ! And 1 say 
they desarved it ! There !' ' 

The hand was high up and the palm was brought 
emphatically down, all doubled up, after it had been 
thrust over toward the dead men in their graves, and 
again the man half turned as if to go. Devine was 
suddenly all attention, and cried out eagerly : 

"What! And they were not hung on this tree? 
They were shot ? Did you say shot V ' 

" Why, yes, shot ! Didn't ' '49 ' tell ye ? Oh, no ! 
Come to think, he'd be about the last man that would. 
And then he ain't given to talkin' of anything but that 
old tunnel, anyhow. But, Dandy, friends or no friends 
of your'n, 1 tell you he wasn't to blame." 

'' Who— who wasn't to blame ? Who ? Speak !" 



78 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'^ Dandy, we came into this 'ere camp 'bout tlie same 
lime, ' '49 ' and me. He is as square as a Freemason's 
rule. Why, 1 have known him, young and old, for 
nigh on to thirty years. ISTov/, I'll tell ye what made it 
so bad. When these two pards — beggin' your pardon — 
got peppered, they crawled down the trail this way. 
Well, right here one of 'em 'pears to have tuckered out. 
And w^hat does the other do but sit down agin this 'ere 
tree, take his head in his lap, and hold him, and nuss him 
and care for him till he was dead, and even then didn't 
try to leave him. But right here, in the darkness, with 
the awful disgrace and all, he stuck right here with his 
dead pard, and died with him." 

'' Oh, my poor father," murmured the boy, lifting a 
wet face, and looking away against the twilight sky. 

" And that's what captured the camp. To see a pard 
stand by his pard like that. Dandy ; I tell you, that 
fetched the boys. And they were really sorry they w\as 
killed. And they didn't like the man that killed 'em. 
And they never did, and they never will. And that's 
just what's the matter of ' '49.' Yes. To kill men hke 
that, you know. It's made him feel bad all his life. 
But they desarved it. They desarved it. They've 
mined my old pard ' '49.' And they desarved all he 
give 'em. Good-night ! Good-night !" 

The young man bounded down the rocks, and caught 
the retreating figure by the shoulder. 

'' And you say that'' '49 ' killed Mm .^— them ?" 

^' Sartin ! And they desarved it. Good-night." 

The old colonel shook him oft' and went stumbling on 
down the rocky trail as fast as he could go. He was 
almost afraid of him now ; his eyes had a glare of mur- 
der — of madness — in them. 

From a little summit near town he looked back. The 



GOING AWAY. 79 

joimg man had moved from the spot where he left him, 
and was now kneeling by the graves. 

But soon Devine rose to his feet, and turned his face 
tov/avd the cabin of old '^^49." He M^alked rapidly, 
and in a few moments came face to face with Carrie, who 
was at the door. 

" Get ready !" he said to Carrie, sharply. 

'^What? What do you mean? Coin' — are you 
goin' away ?" 

" 1 am going. This is no place for me. Ko place for 
you. Get ready ; I am going. If you have any respect 
for me— for yourself — you will not stay here another 
hour." 

He stepped into the cabin, and Vv^ent up to the little 
window. The moon had risen now, and the uncovered 
graves shone white and bright in the silver light. 

The old man in the corner laid some pine-knots on the 
fire, and they began to burn fitfully. The quartz rocks 
which Devine had brought in, as was Iris custom at the 
end of every day, as specimens from the tunnel, still lay 
on the table unexamined by the old man. Devine had 
thought them softer and more rotten and worthless than 
usual, as he laid them there. 

^' ' '49,' I am going away." 

The old man sighed, but did not move. 

At last the girl, who had remained by the door, came 
up to where the 3"0ung man now stood by the window. 
She put up her face ; slie put out a soft, sun-browned 
hand, and gently touched his. It was but a little tiling 
she did, and yet it seemed to her that she had done all — 
all that could be done. 

Charley was still moody. He did not stir, but gazed 
out down the valley, through the deep canon, as he 
said : " Get ready ; we are going — going now." 



80 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

The girl drew back in the dark corner where the old 
dog crouched. She fell on her knees at his side and took 
his big, battered head in her thin ragged arms, and held 
hiiTi to lier heart. Then out of that dark corner came a 
sob that startled ^^'49," who had risen and was ap- 
proaching the window. Still the young man did not hear 
or heed. Finally he left the window, and, going to the 
cupboard, he felt about and found a piece of bread, 
v/hich he thrust into his bosom for the morrow. 

The old man, thouglitful and silent, at length hobbled 
up to the window, looked out, and beheld the uncovered 
graves. 

His face grew black with anger. Perhaps it was sel- 
fish anger. Had he not suffered bitterly ? Yet he had 
in some sort become reconciled. But now, when this 
stranger, whom he had found hungry and alone in the 
world, had entered her heart and taken his place there, 
and stood coldly commanding her ! Why, she had 
stolen bread for him ! The old man was weak in mind 
and in body now. lie was scarcely accountable for 
what he might do or say. He knit his wrinkled and 
overhanging brows, and turned, up and down the floor. 
Then he went to the fire and laid a lot of pine-knots 
on, and there was a bright blaze. 

The young man once more turned about. For the last 
time he gazed out of the window at the two white graves 
glistening in the moonlight. Then he commenced to 
sing a soft air in a low tone, and tap the floor with his 
foot. This seemed to madden '' '49,'- and he muttered 
to himself : 

'' To take her away from me now ! To take her away 
like that ! To take her from me and throw me quite aside, 
and stand there a singin' ! I— I could murder her !" 

His feeble old hand fell down at his side, and touched 



GOING AWAY. 81 

a heavy pick-liancllc that stood there hy the fire. In- 
stinctively he clutched it. lie half lifted it in the air. 
He was looking straight at the young man standing 
there, humming an air — a sad, plaintive air — as he 
looked out and down the valley. The girl still crouched 
back in the dark corner by the dog. She did not want 
to go away. Yet she loved, oh, so tenderly and so 
truly. This was her first great heart-struggle. Once or 
twice the old man thought he heard her try to suppress 
a sob. At last he was sure he heard her. Then he 
started forw^ni'd. At first he started to her. -lie still 
held the long hickory pick-handle. As he approached 
and stood at the back of the young m.an, he paused. 
He did not hear the girl any more. He heard, saw 
nothing now. He only thought of murder. 

Nothing is so dangerous to a man as the sense of once 
having killed a man. There is something singularly 
fatal in this. Let a man once kill one man, and he w^iil 
find an easy excuse in his heart to kill another. Old 
Californians know this well. And they have a saying, 
to the effect that it is hard on the man who is killed, but 
a great deal harder on the man who kills him. 

The old stand or table on which Devine each day, on 
return from his work, emptied out his specimens, stood 
near the middle of the floor, and before the little win- 
dow by which he was now standing. Here lay the little 
heap of quartz he had brought home this last day. The 
distracted old man had been too sad and too much 
troubled to examine the S23ecimens. And so there the 
ragged and jagged rocks lay — black and wiiite, and 
brown and gra}''-— rocks that had never seen the light 
since they sprang into existence at the fiat of the 
Almighty. 

" Going away, now ! Going to take her away ! 



82 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKBR OF THE SIERRAS. 

And tlien to go and cut down the bushes that had hidden 
all ! To go and drag bare the two graves, and set them 
glaring in my face ; and then take her away, and leave 
me here to go mad !" 

Tighter the old man clutched his club as he ap- 
proached the boy from behind. He poised it in the air. 
He measured the distance to the back of his head with 
his eye. 

^' And to stand there coolly singiii', as he looks out 
upon the two graves!" muttered '' '49 " to himself. 
Then he paused a second, for he seemed to catch a note 
in the low, half-inaudible air that he had somewhere 
heard before. For this man had been no savage in his 
youth, whatever he may have been now. 

Devine was waiting for the girl. He once or twice half 
turned his head to ascertain if she was getting ready to 
go. Then he continued to sing. 

Again the old man seemed resolved. He raised his 
club. The table was a little in the way. He stepped 
around it, and at the same time peered into the corner 
to ascertain if Carrie saw him. Her head w^as still bowed 
above the dog, and she was now sobbing bitterly. He 
measured the distance. 

The blow w^ould fall at the base of the brain. The 
neck would be broken. One step nearer ! Then he set 
his right foot firmly in front, and gathered all his 
strength. The club leaped in the air. 

The dog growled. The young man half turned his 
head, and the other lowered his club and pushed the bits 
of quartz about on the table. He took a piece in his 
hand and fell back toward the fire. He made pretence 
of examining it. The young man again looked out at 
the soft and silvery moonlight, down the valley, and 
again began to sing to himself. 



GOING AWAY. 83 

It was tlie old melody — '' '49's" melody — the notes lie 
and Mary had sung together — the song he had sung 
every year since he had left her leaning there in tears by 
the mantel. 

The old man grew wild ! His eyes took fire. II o 
seemed to grow tall, as a storm-tossed pine. Ho was 
strong as a giant. He felt like a lion. Surely ho was 
going mad. He thought of Mary, of the baby in the 
cradle, of the gold in the tunnel. He was so certain of 
that gold, he could see it. And yet he was going to 
share it with this wretch ! 

Gold is hard. Gold is a hard substance, and it is the 
most hardening substance in the world. 

a ?49" glanced swiftly about to see if he had been ob- 
served. He listened. Only now and then a half-sup- 
pressed sob burst in the corner, that Devine could not 
hear for his own sad song ; only the deep breathing of 
the bulldog, the snapping of the pine-knot, the gargle of 
the water in the canon without. Nothing ; no one had 
seen or heard anything at all. 

He clutched his pick-handle once more. He stood 
erect, and moved with confidence and precision. Ho 
was resolute now. Let the dog growl if he liked. He 
would kill the dog, too. Gold ! gold ! gold ! All 
should be his. Not one ounce to this merciless stranger 
who had laid bare the reproachful stones, and would now 
rob him of the little girl he had learned to love ! 

As the old man again planted his foot in front and 
poised his pick-handle for the fatal blow, the moonlight 
fell like silver across the window-sill. Then, as if he 
had been waiting for that, the boy began to sing — to sing 
clear and strong^ and full — the soncj which his mother 
had bade him sing when he was desolate. 

The heavy pick- handle sank to the floor, the old man 



84 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

leaned forward, and from tlie low, sad song drank in 
these words : 

*' Then sing the song we loved, love, 
When all life seemed one song, 
For life is none too long, love, 
Ah, love is none too long." 

" Who can know them but she and I ? It is sacred to 
ns alone ! It is her song ; it is her voice !' ' He sprang 
forward, and clutching the young man's shoulder, he 
drew liim round, and cried in his face : 

" Where — where did you learn that song ?" 

Coldly and calmly the young man answered, looking 
In'm sternly in the eyes, while the girl, who had started 
forward, stood at his side, all wonderment : 

^' It is my mother's song. It is the song that my 
father — my father yonder — my father ! — They sung it 
together, while they lived, each Christmas Eve. And 
my mother— God bless her — sings it still. But my 
father yonder — " 

''J~L Eo! no! lam—" 

The weak and broken old man could no longer bear 
up. His head spun round, words failed him, and he fell 
imconscious to the floor. 

The girl had a little bundle in her hand, and she held 
the old slobber-mouthed dog by a string. She, too, had 
seen a deadly battle fought between love and duty, with 
her own heart for the battle-field. Love had won. 
Duty had been beaten, and she stood with her dog and 
httle bundle ready to follow wherever her lover might 
choose to lead her. But they had no thought of leaving 
the old man now. The first burst of the young man's 
passion subsided, and as he recalled old ^' '49's" deeds of 
kindness in the past, he felt remorse and profoundest 
pty. 



GOIiq-G AWAY. 85 

So tliey laid '^^49" on his bunk in tlie corner, be- 
hind the faded calico curtains, and coaxed him back to 
life and consciousness. 

How he wanted to embrace his boy ! But the lad 
seemed so cold, so distant and hard now. He had nev^er 
seen him so before. Once he tried to sing the old song. 
But he had no strength or voice. Then he thought he 
would say over to himself the lines, and letliis boy hear 
him as he bent over him. He thought he would say 
them low and softly and not above a whisper at first. 
Then he whispered to himself, and slept unheard, even 
as he breathed : 

" For life is none too long, love, 
And love is none too long." 

Then he dreamed. He dreamed of her. He had re- 
turned with gold. With heaps and heaps of gold. He 
saw her standing by the mantel, with head bowed, just 
as of old. He asked her for their baby that he had left 
in that cradle, and she pointed through the window at 
an empty bird's-nest in an apple tree. Then a tall, 
bearded boy embraced him, and called him father. 
Then he dreamed again of gold. Gold ! gold ! Heaps 
and heaps of gold ! This awakened him, and he got up. 
Then he crossed on tip-toe to where his boy sat sleeping 
in the corner, put back his hair, and tenderly kissed his 
forehead. 

It was dawn now, and, rousing Carrie, who had gone 
to sleep with her arms about the dog's neck, he bade her 
awaken young Devine. 



CHAPTEE X. 



so WEARY 



It seems to me that Mother Earth 

Is weary from eternal toil, 

And bringing forth by fretted soil, 
In all the agonies of birth. 

Sit down ! Sit down ! Lo, it were best 

That we should rest— that she should rest. 

I think we then should all be glad. 

At least I know we are not now ; 

Not one. And even Earth somehow 
Seems growing old and over-sad. 

Then fold your hands, for it were best 

That we should rest — that she should rest. 

WiiETiTER it was the old man's dream of Leaps of 
gold, or the young man's reviving hopes of striking it 
yet, that persuaded him to enter the tunnel once more, 1 
can't say. Certain it is that as '' '49" took up his gun 
and hobbled off to make provision for dinner, Devine 
again shouldered his i>ick and returned to the tunnel, 
while CaiTots, as usual, wandered away up on the hill to 
find flowers for her lover and '' '49." 

On this particular day the gay and dashing Gully came 
down the trail and stood in all his splendor in the empty 
door-yard before the cabin. lie was engaged in talking 
to himself. 

^' Lucky ! Better born lucky than rich any day. 
Lucky ! why, they called me Lucky Tom Gully on the 
Mississippi steamers when 1 was a gambler ; Lucky Tom 



so WEARY ! 87 

Gully when I was <a loafer in Chicago ; and I had not 
been in the mines a month till the miners called mo 
Lucky Tom, by intuition — Lucky !" And here he 
lighted his cigar. '^ I'm to be married to Belle to-night. 
But, somehow, 1 don't feel quite solid, with that young 
fellow and ' '49 ' at sword-points. 1 must make up with 
them. I must ask them to my wedding. It's a bold 
stroke. But it is the bold stroke that wins. Poor 
Charley Devine ! 1 quite paralyzed him with my bold- 
ness when he first came to the camp. He has not 
spoken to me since. Poor simpleton ! Pegging away 
in that old tunnel, without a cent, or even a coat to his 
back, or shoe to his foot." As he puffed away and 
lifted his heavy face to the splendor of the mighty 
mountains about him, he heard Carrots singing gayly in 
the crags above. 

^' Carrots ! Why am I afraid of that girl ? Afraid ? 
Yes, it is fear that drives me to make friends with them 
— all three — after doing all 1 could to destroy them. 
An honest set of idiots, that 1 hate, and yet fear." 

Carrots came down from the rocks, carrying a basket 
in which v/as a loaf of bread hidden by flowers and ever- 
greens. 

'^ Hello, Store-clothes !" she cried. ^' 'Now, what 
do you want in old ' 'iQ's ' door-yard ? Better not get 
inside. A bulldog is there !" 

" Hates me as bad as ever, I see. It's not safe to 
have such enemies." Then approaching the girl and 
affecting gentleness, he added : " Carrots, listen to me. 
I've com^e to ask you and ' '49' and that otlier fellow 
to — to my wedding." The gambler, all hardened as he 
was, stumbled at the last word. 

" You don't say so 1" cried Carrots. " Well, I don't 
think ' '49 ' and ' that other fellow,' as you call him, will 



88 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

come to your weddin'. But, I'll tell you wliat 1 tliink 
they would do, if you would ask 'em." 

'' Well, my dear little wild flower, what would they 
do if I asked them ?" 

''Well, I'll tell you. 1 knoir they wou't come to 
your weddin' . But they would both be powerful glad 
to come to your funeral." 

'' Bah !" and a flash of malicious hatred came into his 
eyes. 

As she spoke Colonel Billy, the blazing comet, came 
upon the scene. But he had taken a vaster orbit now. 
The " Yigilantes," or rather a set of sleek villains, 
under shelter of that honored appellation, had taken 
possession of the camp and banished all idlers, which 
included all persons hostile to themselves. 

''Banished! Banished by the Yigilantes at last!" 
gasped the comet. 

" What ! driven oat ?" said Gully, with affected pity ; 
and then, chuckling, added to himself, "My work. 
lie is not for me, and is, therefore, against me. He 
must go." 

^' Yes, new people come, call themselves Yigilantes, 
and drive us old ones out. It's rough, it's tough. 
Total wreck — total wreck." 

" Well, Colonel Billy," said Gully, " shake hands and 
part friends. But it's too late to set out on a journey 
with your blankets to-night. What ! Won't shake 
hands ?" 

" Not v/itli you, I reckon. I^ot with you. Pretty 
low down — total wreck — but never shook hands with a 
man that shook his friends, and never will." 

" What do you mean ?' ' 

*' 1 mean you are a Yigilante. Yes. I know you by 
■ — by — the pure cussedness that's in you." 



so WEARY ! 89 

'^ Wh}^, 1 — I am not a Yigilante. I am—" 

''A liar." 

"What?" 

'^ Stick to it, Billy !" cried Carrie, as she handed him 
tlie knife with which she had been cutting flowers. 
" He is a Vigilante, and the worst of the lot." And 
the girl's face was aflame. 

"You are!" shouted the colonel, flourishing his 
knife. '' And you are the man that's been sendin' off 
all ' '49 's' friends one by one, one by one. And at 
last you'll send Azm off, and then Dandy. Oh, you've 
got devilment in you bigger than a mule. But I'll go. 
Total wreck— total wreck. I'll see old ' '49 ' just once 
more and go. For he too is played out. An old miner 
that never did any harm. That for twenty-five years 
dug ont gold from the Sierras to make the world rich. 
But now^ — never mind. I'll go. I'll go. Total 
wreck." And he dropped the knife on the table and 
stumbled down the rocky trail. 

" Now, do you see what kind of a critter you are ?" 
sobbed Carrie. " Poor, poor old Colonel Billy ! Why, 
if he owned tiie whole Sierras, and you come and wanted 
it, he'd give it to you. And here you come," she 
added, indignantly, "and he must go. You won't let 
liim have even a place to lie down and die in." 

" Carrots, don't be too hard. The man is sent away 
because he has no visible means of support. All such 
men must leave the camp. 1 am going to get man-ied 
and settle down, and 1 want a respectable neighbor- 
hood." 

" Well, Y/e can't have that while you're around." 

"No?" 

" No ! Guess you'll go after ' '49 ' and Charley next. 
But if you do, look out for hghtnin'." 



90 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'^ 'No, 1 won't ; all siicli honest and industrious fellows 
like them will remain, and I will make friends with 
them." 

'' Bet you a forty-dollar hoss you don't make friends 
with them." 

" Oh, but 1 will ! 1 am going now to the tunnel to 
find Charley and ' '49,' and I'll bet you a new silk dress 
they both come to my wedding. Good-by for a few 
minutes. I will see Charley, and you will all come to 
my wedding to-night." And he hurried away. 

*' To-night !" mused Carrots to herself, as she still 
arranged the flowers for Charley. ^' To-night ! And 
that nasty Belle is to be married to-night. Well, it's 
about a match, 1 guess," and as she trimmed the flowers, 
she sat at the table singing an old negro melody. She 
arranged the leaves in the basket, and made her bouquet 
very picturesque, and set it in an old can on the table. 
'' That bucket's for his dinner. Wonder where I got 
that song. Think 1 knowed it always," she muttered ; 
and she recommenced it. 

The flaming comet returned, poking its fiery nose in 
the little girl's face. He was drunk and happy. 

" That ain't ' '49's ' Christmas song (hie) — that ain't." 

^^What! Kot gone, Colonel Billy? I'm glad of 
that." 

'^ I got a drink (hie)— a farewell drink — down at the 
forks of the trail ; a real, genuine, good farewell drink 
(hie). Feel better. Won't go at all now." 

" Good. You stay right here. This is the centre of 
the earth." 

" It is. Why, I couldn't leave this place nohow (hie). 
I should go round, and round, and round, like the sun 
around the world, and never, never git away. No ! 1 
guess I've dug holes enough in the Sierras to entitle me 



so WEARY ! 91 

to a grave. And I'll stay, (hie) — go riglit back to town 
and stay. If tliey want to hang, let ^an hang. Don't 
care anything to be (hie) hanged !" And the poor old 
colonel tottered on up the trail. 

A few moments passed when young Devine suddenly 
dashed in, holding a package of papers with a big red seal ; 
he was fearfully excited, and looked back over his 
shoulder, like one pursued. 

'' Why, Charley, how excited you are !" 

''No, no ; never mind that ; where is ' '49 ' ?" 

" Why, he was to town, and 1 heard him ask the store 
man for credit, and the store man said he couldn't have 
even a cracker any more. So he went off with his gun 
to get somethin' good for our dinner, I guess. But 
v/hat's the matter, Charley ?" 

" ISTothing ; nothing, my child— my darling. But can 
you keep a secret ? Oh, I do wish ' '49 ' was here. 
Can you keep this for m.e ? Keep it as you would keep 
gold." And he gave her the broad package of papers. 
" You will keep it and the secret V 

Silently the girl hid the papers in her bosom. 

" Thank you ! Thank you, my — my — my — love, my 
life. Yes, yes, 1 love you, poor, pitiful little waif of 
the camp, with all my heart. But there, 1 must go back 
to the tunnel to my work. Tell no one 1 was here. Do 
not even whisper it to ' '49.' There !" and eagerly, 
vv'ildly, he kissed her. " Good-by ; 1 will be back soon, 
soon, soon." And the excited man dashed away as he 
came. 

" He kissed me ! And he loves me ! Oh, my 
patience ! Kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me ! 
Kissed me three times at onct. It took my breath away. 
Oh, I'm so happy ! He gave me this to keepo I 
wonder v/hat it is ? And 1 wonder what the secret is ? 



93 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

And wliat the trouble is ? Trouble ? Trouble ? N"o ; 
there is no trouble now. There can never be any 
trouble any more now, for CKarley kissed me." 

As she talked to herself, " '49" entered the door-yard 
with a hairy ring-tailed coon, his gun on his shoulder. 
'' Hello, Carrots! Goin' to sing the old song for 
me?" 

'' Yes ; and 1 v/on't never go to old Mississip no 
more." 

'' That's right. You stay right here, and when 1 
strike it — ha, ha !■ — but won't you kiss me ?" 

Carrots was a long time arranging her mouth ; she 
shrugged up her shoulders, laughing as she remembered 
Charley's kisses. 

" Yes ; oh, yes. There ! 1 wanted to — to — to — kiss 
somebody again !" " '49" started, surprised. " Does 
it ? Do you ? Did it — did it do you as much good to 
■ — to — Do you like as well to be kissed as — as — Do 
you feel as splendid as 1 did when — when — Does it 
make you tingle all over, and feel comfortable and 
warm, and summery, when — " And hero the girl hid 
her face, and then whirled about and laughed in the old 
man's beard till she cried. 

" Why, what do you mean ?" 

" lie — he — he— he kissed me ; he — Charley." 

" Go— go — go — 'long." 

^' Yes, he did. And he said he loved me, and he has 
gone back — " Then, suddenly and very seriously, she 
said, '' No, he — he — he wasn't here to-day ; it was 
yesterday— to-morrow !" 

" Well, I don't care wlien it was or where it was. 
He's an honest, square boy ; and when we strike it in 
the tunnel, I'll make you ricli, rich. But it's rough 
times now. Hain't seen such times since '49." 



so WEARY ! 93 

'* * '49,' tell me somethin'. Didn't you never love 
nobody?" 

*' Why, v/hy, yes, my girl. 1 — I loved my mother." 

I wish I'd a had a mother. But, 1 reckon, 1 neve 



a 



er 



had. 'No, 1 guess 1 never had a mother, ' '49.' " 

^' Never had a mother to love ?" 

*' No ; guess that's why I love Charley, ain't it ? But, 
now, come, ' '49,' didn't you never have anything to love 
besides your mother ? Not baby in the cradle ; eh ?" 

'' My child, don't ask me that — don't." 

'' Why 1 won't, then, ^ '49,' if it hurts your feelin's. 
But I kind o' like to talk about such thins^s now." 

'^ Well, what is it 1 can tell you about now ?" 

'' Why, about yourself. You are always shut up just 
as tight as a bear in winter-time. Weren't you never 
young ? And didn't you never love no girl like me ?" 

^' Yes, yes, yes." 

'' And she didn't love you back ?" 

"She did! God bless her !" 

The girl left her flowers and crossed over to " '49." 

*' And why didn't you live with her, then V 

'^ Now, Carrots, you're liftin' up the water-gates, and 
you'll flood the whole mine," he replied, in a weary 
and half -bewildered tone. 

"Well, I'm so sorry, ''49.' I'm so sorry. But 1 
want to know. I've got no mother to talk to, ' '49,' and 
I — I want to know how these things come out. Tell me 
about it, please tell me about her." 

" I will tell you, my honest child, I'll tell you some 
time." 

" Well, sit down on this rock here. Tell me now, 
won't you ?" 

The girl half led and half forced the feeble old man 
around and down on to a great flat rock in the door-yard ; 



94 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

and so, flowers in hand, sank down at his feet, with her 
head almost in his lap. 

As if not heeding her, the man looked at the flowers, 
and caressed her tenderly. 

'^ And you like those little winter flowers you havo 
gathered from the rocks for Charley and me ? The 
lowly little flowers ?" 

'' Yes, yes, they are so lowly ; and they ain't bright. 
But they're so sweet, ' '49.' " 

'' True, true ! My child, in this cold, hard world 
the sweetest flowers are lowly. The s^veetest flowers 
grow closest to the ground." 

'' And you did love her ? Tell me, ' '49,' tell me." 

Still, in an evasive mood, the old man tried to escape 
the curious little maid, as he said : 

" And Charley's got a sweetheart ?" 

'^ Yes, he's got a sweetheart, and I've got a sw^eetheart. 
IS'ow, didn't you never have a sweetheart, ' '49 ' f 

'' ISI'o, no, no — shoo ! Do you — you think it will rain 
this evenin' V ' 

'^ 1 don't know, and 1 don't care. I know I've got a 
sweetheart, and Charley's got a sweetheart. And didn't 
you really never have a sweetheart, ' '49 ' ?" 

''My child, I — 1 — yes, I'll tell you. I never told 
anybody. But I'll tell you, and tell you now ; and 
never, never do you mention it any more, for I can't 
bear to think about it," and his voice quivered. 

" Why, poor, dear ' '49,' you're all broke np — why, 
I didn't know you ever could cry." 

The old man's rugged cheeks v/ere dashed with tears as 
he began between his sobs to tell his story in broken bits. 

"Well, you see that poor wife leanin' her head on 
the mantel there — she stands before me all the tiuie when 
I turn back to think, and it makes me cry." 



so WE A 11 Y ! 95 

'^ But she — slie was good and true ?" 

" Good and true ? Good and true ; and pure as the 
gold I'm to find in the tunnel and make jouand Charley 
rich with, my girl." 

'^ And you will never see her any more ?" 

'' Yes, yes, when I strike it in the tunnel. But, 
then, you see, it was so long, so long, so long ! When 
I began that tunnel Iwas certain Td strike it in a month 
— then 1 said in a year. And all the time the little boy- 
baby crowin' in its cradle, and its sweet mother bendin' 
over by the mantel waitin', waitin', waitin'." 

'^Dear, dear old ^'49.'" 

" You see, we Forty-niners never knowed much of 
books, or were much for writin' letters. And then, you 
know, we wanted to surprise 'em at home. And so we 
didn't write, but kept waitin' to strike it, and go back 
and surprise 'em. A year slipped through my fingers, 
and another, and another, and another, and another. 
But I'll strike it yet. I'll strike it yet." 

" Oh, I'm so sorry ! I wonder if Charley — well, I'd 
never let Charley go off hke that — no, sir'ee !'' 

" But there, there ; never mind. I'll see her yet. 
Yes, I will. And you are goin' to be rich, too, some 
day. Oh, I will strike it yet. You will be a great lady 
some day, see if you won't. But w^e must get dinner 
now." And here he put the girl from before him, as 
he rose and picked up the coon. ** It is goin' to be a 
glorious good dinner, too." 

" What are you goin' to have ?" 

^' This— coon !" 

'^ What's Charley goin' to have? He's been work- 
in' in the tunnel all day." 

^' He's goin' to have coon, too." 

*' But he don't like coon." 



96 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'' Why not ? Coon is better than horse, or mule, or 
clog. I've tried 'em all. 1 have been here since '49, 
and I reckon I onght to know ; coon is tlie best thing, 
for this season of the year, in the world. 1 have just 
been yearnin' for coon, just been pinin' for coon. Set 
the table, Carrots." Then, going to the cabin and hold- 
ing up the coon, and talking to himself, he said : 
'• Oh, why did you cross my path ? Why wasn't you a 
deer, or a grouse, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or anything 
in this world but a horrible, greasy, ring-tailed coon ?" 

'' Poor old ' '49 !' and he loves her and he left her, 
too. If Charley should leave me lil^e that, I'd — " As 
Carrie was thus musing alone Devine came up from behind. 

^^ You'd what, my pretty pet ?" said the young man, 
as he threw down his pick and specimens and stooped to 
kiss her. 

^' Oh, Charley ! Didn't think you was in a thousand 
miles of here, or 1 wouldn't have been thinkin' about 
you at all." 

" And really you ought not to think about me. Tm 
not worth thinking about ; so much trouble — so much 
trouble," he added, sadly. 

'' Why, what trouble can there be, Charley ? If you 
love me, and — and I love you, and all this beautiful 
world is ours to love in, why what trouble can there be ? 
But I must set the table now." 

Devine kissed his hand to her, and sat on the rocks 
reading a letter just com.e in from Lawyer Snowe, as she 
set the table and sang. 

Then suddenly she stopped, and, looking up archly, 
said: " Oh, Charley, did you hear the news ? Belle and 
— stop a minute ! Will you take the news a little at a 
time, or all in a heap ? Well, then, here goes, all at 
once ! They are to be married to-niglit 1' ^ 



so WEARY ! 97 

It was embarrassing news to the yonng miner. 

'' Belle to be married," lie mused, '' to that man ! 
And what will Snowe think of me f He must have 
heard it somehow, and that is why he comes, post-haste. " 
And he again referred to the letter jnst received. 

'' And you used to like her, didn't you ? You used 
to try to get close to her, and say things, didn't you ? 
You liked her and she liked the other feller. That's 
just always the way. Nobody never likes anybody that 
anybody likes." 

'' I never loved Belle." 

'' You never loved her ?" 

" I did, and 1 did not. Listen : a man with a heart 
must love something. Love — the love of woman — is as 
necessary to a real man as the sunlight to a flower. But 
until a man meets his destiny, reaches his ideal, he must 
reach out to that which is nearest ; as the vine climbing 
feebly up to the sun lays hold with its tendrils on what- 
ever it can, so the heart of a man takes hold of the higliest 
nature that comes near his, and there awaits its destiny. 
Jealousy is born of an instinctive knowledge of this 
truth." 

The girl started away and then came back. " Hey ?" 

" You don't understand ?" 

'' :N'o ; that's all Modoc to me." 

" Well, you will understand some time. So run along 
now. I am sad, and must sit and think." 

'' All right ! Just so you don't think about Belle." 

"Hello, Charley!" said "'49," with a cheer and 
tenderness that meant much, as he came stooping out 
from the cabin, where he had been preparing the coon 
for dinner. " Whew ! Coon without ingerns, without 
crackers. 1 ain't seen such times. Carrots, since '40. 
Them flowers smell so. Carrots ?" 



98 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIEKRAS. 

^' 1 don't smell notliin', except Lucky Tom." 

*' I am as hungry as a wolf, ' '49.' What have you 
to-day for dinner ?" asked Devine. 

Here Carrots caught up and handed her flowers to 
Charley. She thrust them in his face for fear he would 
smell the coon. 

''I brung 'em — I brunged — I bringed — I — brought 
'em — from the mountains — away up against God's white 
snow." 

" And you are His angel, sent down from the shining 
gates. California flowers ! How beautiful ! When 
my — what is that 1 smell V ' 

''Flowers !" 

'' No ! That's the coon," said '' '49," grimly, when 
he found he could no longer conceal the truth. '' We 
will have coon for dinner. It is a dinner fit for a king 
— coon straight !" 

The young man saw their embarrassm.ent, and tried to 
laugh as he said : " If it tastes as it smells, I am afraid 1 
don't want any coon straight." 

" Yes, guess it is the coon, Charley ; I thought at 
first it was the flowers. It smells strong enough. 
Smells stronger than Lucky Tom," said Carrots. 

"Now, look here, both of you. Just listen to me. 
Tliere's a certain time in the year, in this peculiar, 
glorious climate, when you require a change of diet — 
when you require coon. I have been here since '49. 1 
reckon I'd ought to know." 

" Of course he knows. He's right. He's always 
right. I know that coon — is — well, coon is coon, 
Charley," added Carrie. 

'' Yes, that's a fact. Why, you couldn't get such a 
dinner as coon straight in New York for love or money. 



so WEARY ! 99 

No, not even in London," cried brave old '^ '49 " witli 
splendid enthusiasm. 

Carrots was busy all this time setting the table. 

'^ There's the salt and the mustard, and where's the 
pepper? ''49,'" she cried, '^ where's the black pep- 
per ? Oh, here's the black pepper. And here's the red 
pepper. And here's the gray pepper." And with 
stately and graceful ceremony she set each in its place 
on the rickety old table, singing snatches of old negro 
songs. 

'^ Black pepper, and red pepper, and white pepper, 
and gra}^ pepper. Anything else ?" laughed Devine. 

" Yes — yes ! Here's the toothpicks. What mag- 
nificent toothpicks for this season of the year ! Ding 
dono^, dins: dono*. First bell." Here " '49" brouo^lit 
in the coon. 

" Brave little Sunshine, let's make tlie best of it." 

'^ Will you allow me ?" said Devine, and bending 
down he crooked his elbow and conducted her to the 
table. 

" It's a grand thing to live in a country where you 
can get coon whenever your health requires it," said 
u '49." 

" It is a delicious coon, Charley," replied the girl, as 
she pretended to eat greedily, holding her head aside, 
pretending to be afraid lest the pepper should get into 
her eyes. 

" It is a grand dinner," said '' '49." 

'' Some bread, please," asked Devine. 

''Eh?" 

" You forgot the bread." 

" 1 didn't forget the bread, Charley. You never eat 
bread with coon. Coon and bread don't go together. 



100 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 



Injins never eat bread with their coon. I've been here 
since '49, and I ought to know." 

'^ But I am not an Indian, and 1 can't eat this coon 
without bread." 

" You don't expect to get everything — coon and bread 
— and — everything at once, do you ?" cried Carrots. 

'' But I can't eat this without bread !" exclaimed 
Devine. 

" Look here ; be a good boy and eat your coon, 
Charley," urged the old man. 

*' Hungry as I am, 1 can't eat this." 

The old man laid down his knife and fork. Rising 
slowly and sadly, he said, from the bottom of his brave 
old heart : 

" Well, then, listen to me. I have done the best I 
could. 1 tried to hide it all from you, but I can't any 
more. A good many times, lately, 1 have said I was 
sick, and I didn't eat. It was because there was not 
enough for both of us. I wanted you to eat and be 
strong, so that 3^ou could strike it in the old tunnel. 
Kow, there is nothin' more to eat. Nothin' more for 
any one. Charley, more than twenty years I worked on 
in that old tunnel there — all alone— till you came. I 
believed every day that I would strike it. All my com- 
panions are dead, or have made their piles and gone 
away, j^ll along the long and lonely road of my hard 
life, I see, as I look back, little grassy mounds — they 
are the poor miners' graves. I am the last man left. 
Tlie gi-ass every year steals closer and closer down about 
my cabin door. In a few years more the grass will grow 
over that door-sill, and long, strong, and untrodden it 
will grow in my trail there ; the squirrels will chatter in 
these boughs, and none will frighten them away — for 
' '49 ' will be no more ! And yet, for all that, I have 



so WEARY ! 101 

never complained. 1 did believe, and 1 do still believe, 
we will strike it yet. But now — but now ! If you love 
me, eat your coon !' ' 

There were tears in Charley's eyes as he cried : 

'' My dear old partner, forgive me. Why didn't you 
tell me of this before ?" 

* ' If you love me, eat your coon — ' ' 

Carrie looked from one to the other. Her lip was 
trembling. Tears were on her long, heavy eyelashes. 
Yet she tried to laugli. 

''Take a toothpick, then," laughed the girl. And 
then, suddenly serious : " I didn't mean that, Charley. 
You shan't be without bread. Here !" and she took 
the loaf from the basket under the table. 

'' Why, where did you get this ?" 

'' Up there, of her — old Mississip." 

''Then it's her bread, and wo won't eat it," said 
'"49." 

" It ain't her bread. It loas her bread, but I stole it, 
and it ain't her bread any more. I knowed, ' '49,' you 
had no bread. They've got lots of bread, and I don't 
care that" — and she snapped her fingers — " for the 
whole lot. Why, it wasn't nothin', was it, Charley ? 
If it was, I won't never, never steal any more." 

Charley shook his head. " It was stealing, you 
know," he said, gravely. "But I am not fit to re- 
proach you. No ; God knows, not I. That man 
Gully came to me to-day, taunting me with his good 
fortune and my misery. He came in that tunnel to 
taunt me. And there, man to man, I fought him, 
threw him, weak as I was, ' '49,' and took from him a 
package of papers. I gave it to her to keep." 

" Why, my boy — what ? What do you say, 
Charley?" 



102 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

" I knocked liim down and took a package of papers 
from him." 

" Yes, and I'll keep 'em, too !" sliouted the girl, as 
she struck her breast. 

" Charlej, Charley !" cried '' '49." '' Beware of the 
Yigilantes ! The conscience of California ! The 
Vigilantes !". 

'' Well, I'll keep 'em till the cows come home, 
Yigilantes or no Yigilantes," answered Carrie, sulkily. 

" My poor, poor boy !" said " '49." 

''Gully is one of the Yigilantes, "49,'" said the 
girl, suddenly starting up after a moment. 

" Yes, and so merciless ! Give me that package, girl. 
I will keep it." 

The girl handed him the package, wdiile the yonng 
man timidly asked : 

" Why, what will you do with it ?" 

'' When they come for it, boy, as they will, I will 
give it up. Yes, that's right, Charley. That's squar' ! 
They won't, you know — they won't dare to hurt 9ne. 
Why, I've been here since '49. They -won't hurt me, 
boy. I'm old ' '49.' Oh, they w^on't hurt m^." His 
affected cheerfulness as he spoke was pitiful to see. 

" You take a great load off my shoulders, ' '49.' Let 
me tell you that I was robbed of those very papers, 
which made my mission here worse than useless. 1 
wrote back to the hard old lawyer, and he has answered 
gruffly that he will come on and tend to the business 
himself. He may be here. at any moment, and he may 
find me accused of robbery when he comes." 

'' There, there, pard," cried '' '49." " It's all right, 
it's all right. N"ow, Carrots, a little song — one of your 
pretty little negro melodies that you say you was born 



so WEARY ! 103 

Just as Carrie was about to sing she glanced down the 
trail and paused ; her eyes opened to their widest extent. 

'' Tlie Yigilantes !" cried the girl, as she looked down 
the trail over her shoulder. All started to their feet as 
they heard a sullen tread. The Vigilantes strode into 
the yard, Gully at their head. 

" There !" he shouted, as he j)ointed at Devine. 
'' That's the man that robbed me." 

'' You are the prisoner of the Yigilantes !■ ' said the 
captain of the company. " Iron him, nien !" 

Here the old miner's voice rang out : 

" Stop ! One w^ord ! You all know me. I've been 
here since '49. This boy — what do you want ?" 

'' The man who robbed me of my papers," shouted 
Gully. 

'' We want tlie robber," said the captain, respectfully. 

" Yes, we want the robber. I want my papers," 
roared Gully. 

The old man snatched the papers from his bosom, and 
as he held them aloft cried: "Here they are, and — I 
am the robber !' ' 

"AYhat ! Ycm, old ^'49' ?" 

"Yes, I! Old "49.^"' 



CHAPTER XI. 



VIGILANTES. 



The morning must succeed the night. 

All storms subside. The clouds drive by. 

And when again the glorious light 

From heaven's gate comes bursting through, 
Behold ! The rains have washed the sky 

As bright as heaven's bluest blue. 

The sun next morning burst over tlie mighty Sierra 
summits to the east, and down into the little mining 
camp, in possession of the so-called Yigilantes, with a 
glory and splendor unknown to any other land on earth. 
What cares nature for the petty battles of 2)oor, schem- 
ing, plotting, and ever unsatisfied man ? 

Snowe had come j)ost-liaste as he had promised. Tie 
had established himself for the night, along with old 
black Sam, in Mississip's hotel,' while '' '49" was kept a 
prisoner in his own cabin by the Yigilantes, waiting trial 
for his life. 

'' '49" had not even yet had the heart to reveal himself 
to his boy. lie would ^' strike it" yet in the old tunnel, 
and then, with heaps of gold, he would take him to his 
heart. 

Devine had left " '49," with Carrots at his side, 
under guard in his own cabin, and sought the shrewd 
but crabbed old lawyer. The two were returning to the 
cabin together, where " '49's" trial was to be held. The 
young man was full of concern. He knevf better than 



VIGILANTES. 105 

did the old lawyer how quick, merciless, and cruel are the 
Vigilantes. 

'' These Vigilantes," he said to Snowe, '^ are blood- 
thirsty ; I am so afraid he may have to suffer. " 

'^Nonsense. Never fear. I never lost a case or 
made a mistake in my life. No, sir. Never lost a 
case," retorted Snowe. 

''It's fortunate you came. Of course, he has no 
money to defend himself with. But I tell you he is in- 
nocent. And rather than see him suffer, I will proclaim 
myself the guilty party. You will, you 7Rust^ save him. 
If he dies, I die with him." 

'' Stuff ! gammon ! rubbish ! You've got to live ; go 
to-night to your mother at the railroad station. Left her 
there till I could come on and fix up this bother about 
the heiress. She wants to see you, you young rogue, of 
course ; only two hours away, but it's awful ' stage- 
ing.'" 

" Yes, I must see my mother ; poor, dear mother. 
But y^i^ will save "49 ' ?" 

" Save him ! Of course I will save him. 1 never 
made a mistake, and never lost a case, I tell you." 

'* Oh, I am so grateful, so thankful you have come," 
and tears stood in the young man's eyes. 

'' Yes ; you see your mother got alarmed about you 
when we got your letter. And it did seem to me you 
had made a fool of yourself. Yes, fool — that's the 
word. Why, I'd just like to see these Californians twist 
me around their fingers as they have you. I'd give them 
law ! law ! ! Yes, sir, law ! And now, let me see this 
old "49' !" 

And the brusque and blustering old lawyer attem]3ted 
to enter the cabin. The guards crossed their guns on 
his breast. 



106 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'^ I am a lawyer ; must see the prisoner ; client of 
mine. I'm a lawyer — lavvyer. Do yon nnderstand ?" 

" A lawyer, humpli !" muttered the captain. 

'^ Judge Snowe," whispered Devine, ''it is useless 
to tell them you are a lawyer. Yigilantes never allow 
lawyers to interfere or even be present at any of their 
trials." 

The old advocate wns for a moment struck dumb. 

In grim silence the gnard hustled him off down the 
trail, black Sam limping after him. 

" A lawyer ! He must be a stranger in California. 
A lawyer to interfere with the Vigilantes ! Why, we'd 
never get done," muttered the captain, as he turned and 
began to read some papers. 

" The last hope gone !" sighed Devine, as Gnlly, 
entering, shook hands and talked aside with the captain. 

" Well, Captain Hampton, I say, bring him out, and 
give him a fair trial," said the wily villain, w^itli a 
smirk. 

" You will not, you dare not, take that old man's 
life I" gasped Devine, aside to Gully. 

" I ? No. Of course I shall not attempt any such 
thing. The law — the honest miner's law — the law of 
the Yigilantes must take its course. If a man can be 
knocked down in this camp and robbed of his property, 
it's time we knew it." 

" But you know he is not guilty." 

" Listen. You and 1 know a great deal more, per- 
haps, than eitlier of us care to tell. If this old man pre- 
fers to die in 3^our place, I am the last man to rob him 
of that privilege. Yesterday I reached out the olive 
branch. You chose to knock me down and rob me. 
He chooses to take the responsibility of your act, trust- 
ing his gray hairs will save him. Well, I hope they 



VIGILANTES. 107 

may. We let him rest all niglit in liis own cabin. We 
will ffive liim a fair trial now." 

'' You, with your mockery and show of justice, are 
the devil incarnate," hissed Devine. 

" Bring the prisoner out and place him at once on 
trial," ordered the captain. 

The guards opened the cabin door ; " '49" came forth 
from his cabin between the guards, followed by Carrots, 
weeping. 

'' Pretty hard on the old man, eh, Carrots ?" sneered 
Gully. 

The girl turned on him suddenly, the fury of a tigress 
gleaming in her expression. Her hands were clinched 
and her eyes aflame as she cried : 

'' Kow, look here ; ^ '49 ' never wronged anybody in 
his life. He didn't rob you. He didn't hurt your head 
that way, and you know it. You got drunk at your 
w^eddin' last night, and fell into a prospect hole. Wish 
you'd broke your neck." 

'^ Have you any witnesses for your defence ?" asked 
the captain, in kindly tones, to the silent old prisoner. 

^' Yes, he has!" cried the girl, as Colonel Billy 
tottered up the trail. 

'' What witnesses ?" asked Gully. 

*' Total wreck !" answered the colonel, taking his 
place beside " '49." 

'' Hello ! Come back to be hung, have you ? 
What can you swear to against his open confession?" 
cried Gully. 

^^ What do you (hie) require a gentleman to swear to ? 
I'll oblige you ; nothin' mean about old Colonel Billy 
(hie) in a case like this." 

'' I tell you, boys," cried Carrots, as she turned and 
appealed to the miners, " he didn't do it. ^ '49 '.hasn't 



108 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

been in that tunnel for a montli. His back's too stiff ; 
got rlienmatix. Why, he can't stoop down." And 
liere she bent her neck and reached her face to ^' '49," 
who had seated himself on a rock, and whispered sharply 
in his ear : " Say yes. Don't shake your head like that. 
Yes, he's got rlienmatix so he can't get up when he's 
down, and he can't get down when he's up. And the 
idea that he could wliij) that yaller dog there !' ' 

'' Carrots, don't — don't call names," protested '' '49." 

" Well, he is a dog, and a yaller dog at that. And a 
yaller dog is the meanest kind of a dog. Yes, yaller 
dogs sucks eggs," shouted the furious girl. 

'' Well, I'm a witness. 1 swear that ' '49 ' didn't do 
it. I swear that the (hie) yaller dog did it himself," 
blurted out the colonel. 

"No, no ! It's all right, boys. It's all right. He 
has been robbed. It was bad, bad. I'm sorry. But 
he got it back ; and I don't deny it," said '^ '49." 

" But yon shall not suffer for my — my — " interposed 
Devine. 

" Shoo ! speak low. And listen to me, Charley. In 
the right-hand corner of the further end of the tunnel — • 
I saw by the rocks only yesterday that we are on the 
edge of a vein, a seam, a river of pure gold." 

'^ Bad, bad ! It's in his head again," said the colonel 
to himself, as he tapped his forehead. 

" My dear old pardner, let ns forget the tunnel," 
pleaded Devine. 

" Forget that tunnel ? Forget my twenty-five years 
of life wasted there ! My wife ? My baby in the — " 
He stopped and shook his head, and then said to him- 
self : "No, there is no baby there now. The baby is 
here. Charley, I ha/Ve a favor to ask," he continued. 
"You will doit?" 



VIGILAl^TES. 109 

'' If it costs me my life !" 

*■' No, it's not like that. Yoa go now, riglit now, into 
the tunnel and bring me the last quartz specimen that 
fell from your pick — " 

'^ But 1 cannot leave you." 

'' Stop ! You said if it cost you your life. And yet 
here you refuse to — " 

'^ Forgive me. 1 will go. But whatever happens 
you shall not die. ' ' And the young man, after wliisper- 
ing a few words in Carrie's ear, bounded away in the 
direction of the tunnel. 

" There's a great lawyer come, ^ '49,' " said Carrots, 
hopefully. 

'^ I don't want no lawyer. I want you to listen to 
me.^ Carrots." 

" Yes, I am listening all the time. What is it V ' 

" Carrots, in the furtherest right-hand corner of the 
tunnel — " But the crowd was impatient. The Vig- 
ilantes were w^aiting, and Gully, who had been con- 
ferring with the captain, came forward and said : 

'' Well, if you all insist, of course we must proceed. 
Have you any other witnesses ?" 

'' I have no witnesses but myself, accusing myself." 

'' Yes, you have (hie) plenty of witnesses. I am a 
standin' witness. 1 swear that I was with ' '49 ' all day 
yesterday, every minute." 

'' Can you swear to that ?" asked the captain, eagerly. 

'' Certainly (hie) I can, and 1 do." 

'' Hold up your right hand." 

In a loud voice, and holding up his left hand, the 
colonel testified ; *' I swear that ' '49' and me yester- 
day—" 

'^ Hold up your right hand." 

The colonel turned around and shifted his old hat 



110 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

from right to left, and from left to right, and again held 
up his left hand. 

'^ I swear — " 

The captain became angry and impatient, and, forcing 
np his right hand, roughly cried, "^ Will yon be sworn 
nowf 

'' ^o ; I'll be hanged if I'll be sworn." 

All for a moment was still. Then the captain signalled 
Gully to tell his story. 

^' "Well, upon the oath of our Order, I swear that on 
last evening, I, on this very spot, after I had been 
robbed, accused a party of robbery, and that this old man 
drew this package from his breast, which had been taken 
from me not an hour before, and said he w^as the 
robber." And, with a great flourish, the pompous and 
highly-perfumed gentleman threw the papers on the 
table. 

^'No, 1 was there. I heard it all, and I swear he 
never said it," cried Carrots, springing to her feet. 

''Did you say this ?" asked the captain, kindly, for 
he preferred " '49's" word to Gully's oath. 

The old man answered, bowing his head, " And I say 
it now." 

" You hear him ?" shouted Gully, as he stood in line 
with the Yigilantes. 

Tliere was a silence and a solemnity that were painful. 
The honest and kindly captain of the Yigilantes, uncover- 
ing his head, solemnly asked : " What shall be his sen- 
tence?" 

Death !" answered the first Yigilante, uncovering. 
Death !" answered the second, solemnly. 
Death !" said the third, w^ith bowed head. 
Death !" sadly murmured the fourth. 

I vote for life," said Gully, as the captain called 



(( 



u 



VIGILAKTES. Ill 

for Ills vote, " but, you see, mj voice is powerless. The 
majority rules in our Order." 

'^ I am satisfied," said " '49," calmly. 

" No, no," cried Carrots, appealing to tlie Vigilantes. 
'^ He is my father, my mother, my all ! If you take his 
life, you will kill me." 

''Now just (hie) look at that poor gal," hiccoughed 
Billy. " Here ! He's some account. If you want to 
hang anybody hang me. Nobody cares for me. (Hie.) 
Total wreck ! Total wreck !" 

" Take this man away. He ain't worth hanging," 
said the captain, impatiently, as he pushed the intrusive 
comet on in its orbit about the camp. 

'' Pretty low down, boys ; pretty low down (hie) ; 
ain't worth hangin'. Ain't worth hangin'. Total 
wreck ! Total wreck !" 

'' But I tell you I will come in ! I ain't a lawyer. 
No, I ain't. I am a witness. Yes, I am a witness. " 
And, fighting the obstinate guard with his umbrella, 
Snowe, with black Sam at his heels, was once more upon 
the ground. Charley did not go back to the tunnel to 
seek for the mythical heaps of gold, but found the old 
lawyer, and persuaded him to return. 

'' Yes," said Sam, getting behind Snowe. " Yes, 
he's a witness. He ain't no lawyer dis time, he ain't. 
He's a witness, sah. " 

'' Snov/e, by the seven fiends ! But what of it ? I've 
got the girl. I can afi:'ord to laugh at them all now !" 
cried Gully, pale as a ghost and with quivering lips. 
He had been too busy with his schemes of villainy to 
perceive the newcomer. 

''Yes, I'm a witness. Keep me back if you dare, 
and I'll send the last mother's son of you to State 
prison. Yes, I'll give you law, law, till you're sick 



112 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

of it," shouted the lawyer, with a flourish of his urn- 
hreila. 

'^ But jou ain't no lawyer — shoo !" whispered Sam in 
his ear. 

'^ Xo, no ! I'm a witness. '^ He crossed to the table, 
took out his glasses, and gazed at the papers with a long 
and curious gaze. Then sniffed the air, took off his 
glasses, polished the crystals with his coat-tail, and then, 
doubling them up, took in a long breath. 

It was Gully who was troubled now. 

^' Great heavens !" he muttered, as he advanced 
cautiously. ^^ I must get those papers from that table 
or I am lost." 

^' No ! I'm a witness !" shouted Snowe suddenly in 
his startled ear. ^' Not a lawyer ; a witness !" 

" If you will let me have this property of mine — those 
papers, 1 — " 

" What ! Tom Gully, the villainous Gully !" And 
Snowe put on his glasses to gaze. 

" Yes, Lucky Tom Gully. Perhaps you will know 
me when we meet next." 

" Well, I think I shall. . But as I rarely visit State 
prisons, perhaps we will not meet again soon." 

Gully disdained to answer, but made an effort to get 
the papers. 

''Re wants his papers," said '^ '49." "It is but 
right he gets 'em back. I don't deny it, sir. It's hard, 
just as we are about to strike it in the tunnel. But, sir, 
you're a lawyer ; take the tunnel, and see that Charley 
ain't swindled out of it, sir." 

'' Now you just hold on, ' '49 ' !" cried Carrots. 
'^ Lawyers is smart. And I hearn tell they can make 
black things look white sometimes. You jest take 
them papers, Mister, and see if you can't save ' '49.' 



VIGILANTES. 113 

Do, do, do ! Them's the papers that makes all the 
trouble. " 

Snowe looked at her a moment through his glasses, 
and then clutched up the papers, as if a bright thought 
had just entered his brain. 

Suddenly the old lawyer stopped, started, puckered 
his mouth, and gave a long, low whistle of surprise and 
delight, and Gully knew that at last the tables were 
turned, that the game was lost. He snatched up his hat, 
and turned to go. 

^' What's your hurry. Store-clothes ?" cried Carrots. 

'' Stop, these are my papers !" roared Snovv^e. 
" Gentlemen of the jury ! Gentlemen of the villainous 
Yigilantes' jury ! Mine ! My papers ! There's my 
name ! My papers, stolen from me by that man." 

'' But lawyers are tricksters sometimes," said the cap- 
tain, after stopping Gully. 

''We lawyers are your legislators in peace, your 
generals in war, and your gentlemen always," and 
Snowe bowed profoundly. 

'' And these are your papers, you assert, stolen from 
you by him ?" 

'' My papers, stolen from me by that fragrant and 
highly-perfumed thief. There ! That's my signature. 
And there ! That's his odor. Smell him ?" 

" Yes, and it was I who knocked him down in the 
tunnel yesterday, and took those papers from him," 
cried Charley, in great excitement. 

'' And it served him right," observed the captain, 
releasing '"49." 

" Oh, "49 ' ! ' '49 ' and Charley !" cried the liappy 
Carrots. " 1 want to kiss and hug you both. I'll hug 
' '49 ' and kiss Charley !" And she suited the action to 
the word. 



CHAPTER XII. 



GNOME-LAND. 



In the e<arth and underground, 

Full a mile or more below, 
Where the busy gnomes abound, 

Where their strange gold houses grow : 

Where the smoky gnomes sit grum, 
Kabbit-faced, knock-knee'd, and low ; 

Where the days may never come, 
Where the nights may never go : 

There with gleaming rod in hand — 
Smitten rock, an earthquake's shock : 

A stream of gold, a gladdened land ; 
A Moses and the desert rock. 

But the end was not yet, by any means, witli Gully, or 
tlie old lawyer, or " '49." Each was still full of pur- 
pose and endeavor. The old lawyer must find and save 
ill's heiress. Gully must leave Belle to herself, and save 
himself in sudden and precipitate flight. And old 
"'49" must strike it in the tunnel, and with heaps of 
gold claim his son, and forthwith seek the true and 
tender woman that ever yet leaned her face in her palm 
and waited, weeping there, by the mantelpiece. 

With this purpose, " '49" set out the moment he was 
released, and talking Carrots with him, once more 
entered the tunnel to test the rotten quartz that had been 
discovered there. 

Charley followed, with '' '49's" gun. lie felt that 



GNOME-LAND. 115 

tliere was still trouble in the air, and that he must not be 
unprepared. 

He stopped at the mouth of the tunnel, and the old 
man went on. It had been a bright, warm morning, and 
the snow was melting upon the mountain. The mouth 
of the tunnel was dripping more than usuaL The girl 
saw this, and hesitated to enter. Those born on the 
border, where life depends on caution, are warj of the 
elements, and are exceeding watchful. Devine, how- 
ever, noticed nothing unusual, and the girl was silent. 
As they lingered there, waiting for they knew not what, 
looking askance, looking down, starting and coming 
back, saying little nothings, getting bothered and blush- 
ing, as lovers will, a rattlesnake slid down the steep, 
dripping hillside, rattling as he ran, as though fearing a 
foe that no venom could reach. The young man lifted 
his gun and shot the reptile through the head. 

Carrie at last, as if playing hide-and-seek, and laughing 
at her own fears, lowered her pretty head, and, darting 
forward, disappeared in the dark and forbidding tunnel, 
while Charley shouldered his gun and sauntered away. 

She reached the old man. He was stripped to the 
waist. He was wild with excitement and delight. No, 
he knew it was there ! It could not escape him after all 
those years. She had never seen him so strong and sup- 
ple in her life. 

He caught her in his arms and sat her upon a pile of 
quartz in a corner, and then bowed down at her feet and 
called her a little queen. He said he had set her on a 
throne of gold. 

How she cried, and how she clung to his neck and 
kissed him there ; a half mile away, in the dark and 
dripping earth, she was thinking of what had just passed. 
He was thinking of what was to come. 



IIG '49, THE GOLD-SEEKEH OF THE SIERRAS. 

Then liow they did plan and build their castles of 
gold ! Building as such castles are always built. For 
not a particle of gold had as yet been found. 

Charley should know nothing about it ! No, not one 
word, till he was right certain he loved Carrots almost 
to death. As if she did not know that already ! 

At last her apron was spread out and filled with 
quartz, as if it was gold. And '' '49," taking the 
candle from his hat, filled the old hat, as a boy merrily 
fills his cap with golden apples ; then, taking the candle 
in his hand, they started for the mouth of the tunnel. 
They had to stoop over as they groped along. Now and 
then the old man would stumble under his load and 
almost fall. Then Carrie would banter and laugh 
merrily at his tall figure, which was ill-suited for grop- 
ing along with a great load. And thus stumbling, fall- 
ing, laughing, and bantering each other like school-chil- 
dren, they drew near the mouth of the tunnel. 

Carrie missed a shaft of light, so familiar to them 
both, as they turned a little angle in the tunnel. But 
she said nothing. She still tried to laugh, as she 
stumbled, but it was such a laugh as might come up from 
a grave. She hastily staggered on a few yards further. 
She stopped ; then she hurried on, and suddenly found 
she stood almost to her knees in the cold, muddy water. 
The girl dropped her quartz with a dull splash, and 
hastened back to where the old man stood holding up 
the candle before his eyes and trembhng in every limb. 
The water had followed her back, and was rising fast. 

She took the candle, which was about to fall from his 
trembling hand. They looked each other in the face, 
but neither spoke. They both understood too well the 
awful truth. 

She turned and waded down the sloping tunnel till she 



GHOMR-LAND. 11? 

stood in tlie water to her waist. Tliere was no light, no 
sound — nothing. The mountain-side iiad sHd down and 
Giiut them up in a living tomb. No power on earth 
could roll away the stone'. She felt that they would 
never, never pass through the mouth of that tunnel any 
more. She returned to '' '49" and took him by the 
hand. "Come! come back!" she said; "see, the 
water is rising fast. ' ' 

"But what can we do back— back there?" pleaded 
the old man, piteously, as he dropped his quartz and 
mechanically allowed himself to be led back deeper into 
the heart of the mountain. 

She did not answer. What, indeed, could they do 
back there, but sit down and wait an hour, and then — 
die? 

Both were silent. He was thinking of his boy. Oh, 
if he only knew ! If he only knew of the gold that was 
to be his and hers ! 

She was thinking of the green trees above her, as she 
groped back ahead of the water that slowly crept along 
the tunnel after her. She was thinking of the flowers — 
of the flowers she had gathered for liim. She was think- 
ing of the bright and beautiful sun. 

Ok, but to see the sun again ! Oh, but to look up 
out of a chasm in the earth, and see a single ray of 
light ! Oh, but to be a bird ! But to be a squirrel, and 
leap from limb to lind) ! Now that the world was shut 
out from her, she remembered how beautiful it was. 

She thought if she could only see a single little flower 
nodding in the sun, she could sit down and love it, and 
love it tenderly all her life. 

The old man was dazed — helpless. She led him back 
to the extreme end, and there they crouched down 
together to wait. To v/ait for what ? Death ! 



118 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

The water came, touclied their feet, their knees, the air 
escaping through the crevices in the rocks above. The 
candle burned to its socket, and dropped through the 
iron ring into the water with a strange cry, as if it died 
in despair. 

The tunnel was now totally dark. The girl felt 
about, and drew up from the water and heaped up a pile 
of rocks in the highest corner. She placed the old man 
on this, and sat at his feet. The man put out his long 
bony arms, wound them about her, and drew her as far 
as he could from out the water. She felt the cold tide 
touch her bosom, and then she knew that all would soon 
be over. ' ' Maybe we'd better try to pray. Can you pray, 
' '49 ' ? Father, can you pray ? Then pray for Carrie, 
for she is not fit to die ;" and the girl's heart, for the 
first time in all her life, began to fail her as she clung to 
the old man's neck. 

" Child ! that confession is your prayer for us both." 
And the two drew closer together — closer together in 
death, even, than they had been in life. 



CHAPTER Xm. 

A CLOUD OF DUST. 

Ay, you are stricken ! Yes, I know 

Your wounds are deep. Silent you bleed, 

Alone and mortally. And oh, 

Sweet friend, God knows you need 
Compassion while j^ou fight and bleed. 

But know, dear, stricken, bowed-down friend, 

The worst that ever may befall 

Is death, which happeneth to all, 
Dear, honest, high-born death, sweet friend, 
"While God stands waiting at the end. 

Young Devine had stood a moment leaning on his gim 
after the girl darted away in the tunnel, thinking of lier, 
her beauty, her simple truth and sincerity, loving her 
with all his heart. Then he shouldered his empty 
weapon and started to the cabin. As he did so, tliere 
was a crash ! He ran back, and his blood froze with 
horror as an avalanche from the mountain side thundered 
down and covered the mouth of the tunnel. The terror 
that fell upon him at this sight was beyond words. 

The young man almost fell in a swoon. Then remem- 
bering that the girl was buried there, he tried hard to 
think what to do. Were they crushed and utterly dead ? 
Or were they still alive, and doomed to die by inches 
there ? He looked at the avalanche before him. It would 
take hours at least to remove it and reach them. 

Suddenly the tli ought of the other side flashed through 



120 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OP THE SIERRAS. 

Ills brain — the other tunnel. He remembered the 
strokes of the pick he had heard so often from that other 
tunnel — the tunnel of their mortal enemjes. He dashed 
down at incredible speed and around the point, and 
reached the mouth of it. 

There was a man washing out a panful of earth down 
l)y the stream in the edge of the willows. Devine 
shouted with all his might, but the man did not hear. 
This was drunken old Colonel Billy. The terror of the 
Vigilantes had made him prodigiously industrious. He 
had resolved to reform. So he had not time to hear or 
look up. 

Devine turned to dash into the heart of the tunnel 
where he hoped the two men, Dosson and Emens, were 
at work. 

At that moment these two men were coming out. 
They were bowed down, loaded down, and were cursing 
eacli other and quarrelling fiercely. He set his gun 
against the wall and darted past them. They did not 
see him, for the sunlight dazed them ; and then they 
were too deep in their deadly hate. He shouted to them 
as he ran into the tunnel, but they did not hear. 

They were loaded down with gold. They had struck 
the vein. And these men were but hardened and 
embittered by their good fortune. Each wanted it all. 
Qjie hated the other for the fact that the other should 
have half of this mountain of gold. 

As Devine groped on, deeper and deeper into the 
tunnel, he heard a pistol-shot behind him. He won- 
dered at this. Could they be shooting at him ? Then 
he rememered that they were in a deadly quarrel. 
Possibly they were at death-grips. 

He soon reached the end of the tunnel, for it was not 
nearly so deep and long and crooked as the other, and 



A CLOUD OF DUST. 121 

was entranced to find a candle there, still burning in the 
little iron ring in the wall. He caught up a pick with 
all the strength and fury of a madman. He dashed his 
fall force against the wall before him. Water was 
oozing through ; and under his feet where he stood were 
sheets and seams of shining gold. 

Again he struck. Again and again. But the wall 
was a wall of stone. It had no heart. It had stood 
there thousands of years amid earthquake and tempest. 
Ylhj should it yield to his prayers ? He flung down the 
pick and hastened out in utter despair. 

At the mouth of the tunnel there lay Emens, dead. 
Dosson was gone. The man who had been so listlessly 
working at the edge of the river was also gone. His 
great Mexican wooden bowl lay floating in the stream. 
Old Colonel Billy's hat lay where he had been panning 
out. Who had killed Emens ? And where was the 
murderer hidden ? 

The dead man lay there with a bullet through his 
brain. Heaps of gold were around him. His eyes were 
wide open. He did not care for this gold now. He lay 
there staring helplessly up to heaven. 

But Devine had not time to attend to the dead. The 
living must be looked after. Leaving the gun still lean- 
ing against the wall, he hastened back again and around 
to the tunnel of old '^ '49," wild, desperate. He hardly 
knew what he did now. But the flinty wall before him 
in the Dosson tunnel had broken his heart Vv^itli its ob- 
stinacy. Breathless he came to the mouth of their own 
tunnel where he had last seen Carrie enter. Ah ! for 
help now from enemy or friend ! But no human being 
was in sight or hearing. And what had become of Col- 
onel Billy ? 

Colonel Billy, who had been seen working so Indus- 



122 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

trionslj on tlie edge of the willows, near the month of 
the tunnel, had not heard the hot quarrelling, any more 
than he had heard the shout of young Devine for help. 
He was working, not only for bread, but for character, 
and — drink. He was thirsty, and when he was thirsty 
he could \vork very hard. He had not tasted whiskey 
for a half day. He perhaps had not tasted bread for a 
wliole w^eek. Yet that was not such a hardship. 

But he did hear the pistol-shot. He dropped the 
great wooden Mexican bowl in the water, and sprang up. 
He wheeled about, peered forth from the willows, and 
saw a man reel, fall, and another bend ov^er liim. He 
saw that this was Dosson. He saw, also, that he had a 
smoking pistol in his hand. 

He saw Dosson place his hand on the fallen man's 
heart, then rise up, look around, stoop, and pick up a load 
of something from tlie ground. 

Then the cautious old colonel, who could not readily 
forget the lesson he had received, hid back in the 
willows, while the other stole down to the water, hitclied 
up his pants, and hastily waded across. He saw this 
man stoop, look up, down, right, left, and then enter 
the mouth of an old deserted tunnel that lay there gaping 
at the sinking sun. 

The man had dropped something when he stopped to 
liitcli up his pants. Timidly the old colonel stepped out 
and picked it up. It was gold ! A shining nugget of 
gold. The earth had opened her stony lips and uttered 
this. It was as a new-born child to the half-demented 
old miner. He hugged it to his heart, and started in a 
run for the saloon. 

He dashed, all breathless, into the den. Old men, 
young men, miners, loafers, thieves, lay around, loafed 
on benches, or lounged on barrel-heads and kegs. 



A CLOUD OF DUST. 123 

Colonel Billj was out of breath. lie could not 
speak ; but he thundered the piece of gold down on the 
pine-board counter, and pecked at his bottle. The gold 
spoke for him. Poor fool ! Gold to him meant drink. 

With one hand the amazed barkeeper handed forth 
the fullest bottle, and with the other covered the great 
glittering specimen, and drew it in toward him. 

Colonel Billy, with trembling hands, filled the tumbler 
to the brim, and drained it at a gulp. The boys began 
to wake up. The barkeeper lifted the piece of gold in 
the air. It was like a rising sun. 

They were awake in an instant, and came rushing 
forward. 

Colonel Billy still held on to the neck of his bottle. 
He beckoned to the boys, and as he filled and emptied 
his glass again, they ranged alongside, and drank Avith 
haste and precision. 

And again they all drank together. Then they 
crowded around. They pulled the fast-failing colonel 
this way and that, and asked questions wildly, almost 
savagely, as they held on to him. If he did not speak 
instantly, they would tear the secret from his throat. 
At last he caught liis breath, and blurted out : 

*' Gold ! gold ! Dosson ! Dosson's tunnel ! Dead ! 
dead ! dead ! And — and — " 

The old colonel caught at the corner of the counter. 
Then he clutched at the shoulder of a red-shirted miner 
as he passed. But no one would stop now. The tide 
passed out and on toward the tnnnel, leaving only the 
barkeeper and Colonel Billy, blind-drunk, behind. 

The brave old colonel spun about for a second, as the 
barkeeper stood behind the counter calmly washing his 
tumblers, with his eye fastened to the nugget, and then 
clutching wildly in the air, fell back in a dark corner 



124 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

between two barrels, and lay there like a man that wa,s 
dead. 

The half-drunken mob reached the month of Dosson's 
tunnel, breathless and wild with excitement. There lay 
the dead man. There stood the gun. " It's ' '49's,' " 
they cried. It was his gun. And they had seen his 
partner, young Devine, with that yevj gun on his 
shoulder that very hour. Yes, a dozen of them had seen 
him with that gun on his shoulder as he and Carrots 
went up toward old *' '49's'' tunnel ! And as he came 
back, too. 

They took the dead man with them, and the gun. 
There was something terrible in the anger of this half- 
drunken mob, as they moved on up past the saloon, 
after again drinking deeply at the expense of Colonel 
Billy and the nugget, up to the cabin of ^^ '49," bearing 
the dead man along. 

^' They knew it would come to this ! They knew this 
feud would end in blood ! And then to shoot the man 
when he had struck it, too !" 

^' And then to lie at the mouth of the tunnel, and 
shoot him as he came out from his work." 

'' To shoot him when he was blinded by the sunlight 
and could not see to fight." These and like sentiments 
of old-fashioned justice were heard on every side from the 
mob. 

It was hard. This young man Devine had made few 
friends. He was a manly man, much like his father in 
this. 

There are men who go about the world making 
friends, on purpose to use them. 

There are men who hoard up friends as a mJser hoards 
up money. There are two kinds of meanness. One is 
a money meanness, the other is a character meanness. 



A CLOUD OF DUST. 125 

There are men very generous with their money, who are 
as stingy with reputation as it is possible to be. Stop 
and think of this, and draw a line carefully between the 
man who makes friends to use and the man who makes 
friends from his very manhood, as a rich field grows a 
golden harvest. 

As the mob passed up to '' '49's" cabin, Mississip fell 
in and cheered it on. Now she would have her re- 
venge ! 'Now that meddler would get his reward. She 
chuckled to herself as she thought of the gold, the rich 
mine which would be all Dosson's and hers, now that 
Emens was dead. Emens dead ! She wanted to hug 
the young man for killing him. But this young man 
must die, too. She would make a clean sv/eep of all. 
And if only that girl could be brought into it likewise ! 
How she hated her ! This girl was growing more beau- 
tiful every day. She was more beautiful than Belle, 
and she hated her as never before. 

The mob laid down the dead man at the door, and fell 
back a little, in conference. Then it was that the 
strongest and boldest minds in that rude assembly came 
to the surface and stood at the head. They organized in 
one moment. 

As young Devine had come again to the mouth of 
61 '49'g" tunnel, this living tomb, he perceived that the 
water was oozing, spouting, and bursting, and that the 
mass of earth was moving. It was perilous to approach 
alone, so he turned and hastened back for help. As he 
approached the cabin he found himself a prisoner. 

A tall, bearded man lifted his slouch hat, and said to 
Devine : 

'' You are accused of murdering this man. You are 
to be tried for 3^our life ; tried now. This is our wit- 
ness," pointing to the dead. " Where is yours ?" 



CHAPTER XIY. 

OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 

A little bird flew quickly out, 
And, singing, circled sharp about, 

Then back, deep hiding in its tree ; 
And there, as if the whole world heard, 
The sweet-voiced, fluttered little bird 

Began its morning minstrelsy. 

Fire is not nearly so terrible an element for good or 
ill as water. This every old miner knows too well. 
The pent-up water drives everything before it. Let it 
once accumulate its forces and even the mountain 
must yield. 

When the flood in '' '49-s" tunnel had reached the 
girl's neck, and while she was bravely holding up her 
old friend to the last, she suddenly felt the waters begin 
to recede. Then there was a burst as of thunder, and, 
like an outgoing tide, the flood turned, and the two, with 
prayers of gratitude too deep and holy for words, rose 
up and groped their way to the blessed light, the birds, 
the flowers, the far, fair sky — God. 

*' '49'' still held in his hand one little fragment of 
quartz as they slowly staggered on toward the cabin, drip- 
ping and drying in the hot overhanging sun. He lifted 
it up, looked at it long and eagerly. Then, with a deep 
sigh, he threw it away. No sign of gold yet. He must 
still wait a while before he takes his boy to his heart. 

Busy with his own plans for discovering and saving 



OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 127 

Ill's heiress, and knowing lie would be detained an in- 
definite time at Sierra, the shrewd old lawyer, Snowe, 
after the trial of '' '49," had left Charley to his own 
pursuits, and had sent for the youth's mother to come to 
Sierra that evening. It was now clear to the Vigilantes 
that he was indeed a lawyer, so he was not permitted to 
appear for the young man or to say one word in his 
defence. He was allowed, however, to tell him that his 
mother was coming, and would soon be at his side. 

When the chief of the Yigilantes had laid his hand on 
the young man's shoulder and told him he must be tried 
for murder, Devine did not speak. His face was lifted 
to the mountain before him. Far up beyond, and around 
the brow of a pine-topped peak, curved and corkscrewed 
the stage road. There was a cloud of dust dimly visible 
in the sunset. The stage was descending to the camp. 
' ' Have you any witnesses V ' 
The young man started, then answered : 
^' Why, everybody knows 1 would not do this. There 
is my partner, ' '49 ' ; he has been with me all the time 
since 1 came here." 

" Has he been with you to-day ? Every minute ?" 
*' Yes, every second !" shouted '' '49," who was lost 
in bewilderment. '' '49 " was a hero — a man who could 
die for another. True, not of that loftiest race of 
heroes — men who deem a lie worse than death. LettinP* 
go the doorpost, and limping over to Charley, he said to 
himself, '' You don't get anything against Charley out of 
me, Mr. Yigilantes. Not if 1 know myself, you don't ! 
And I've been here since '49." 

'' Well, we seldom swear respectable men in our 
courts. But, as you are his partner, 1 think I will swear 
you. Take off your hat, and hold up your right hand, 
Kow be sworn." 



128 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

The old man took off his hat, held his two hands 
high in the air, and began, eagerly. 

" Well, he stopped wiih me here all yesterday ; he 
slept with me all last night ; he has been with me all to- 
day. There !" 

'' But will yon be sworn ?" 

^^ I've got nothing ]nore to swear to. 1 didnH hear 
him say notliin' at all — not one word about killin' any- 
body.'' 

*' But will you be sworn ?" 

*' 'Ive got nothin' more to swear to, I tell you. I 
swore to everything 1 know." 

' ' Will you be sworn ?' ' repeated the Yigilante. 

*' Yes ! He Tvorked in the tunnel yesterday. He 
slept with me last night. He ate breakfast with me this 
mornin'. He has been with me all day to-day. 
There !" 

'' But will you swear to that ? Can anybody swear to 
that?" 

'' If anybody swears to that will that save him ?" 

'^ Yes. If anybody can swear to that it will save 
him," was the solemn reply. 

''Well, 1 can !" cried Carrots, eagerly; and lifting 
her face, with clasped hands, the girl cried : ''By the 
good God, I swear Charley slept with ' '49 ' last night ! 
He stayed with him yesterday. He has been with him 
all day, and — " 

'' Carrie ! Carrie ! it is not true ! You will go to the 
bad world for this !" protested young Devine, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

" Well, then, 1 dare to go to the bad world !' ' retorted 
the frenzied girl, as she sprang up and seized his hand 
and attempted to lead him back into the cabin away from 
the crowd. 



OUT OF THE DARKN-ESS. 129 

'' There ! That's all right ! It's all right now. 1 
swore to all they wanted, I did," she cried. 

But w^hy detail the sad conclusion. From the first 
Devine was doomed. 

It was of no avail. The man was sentenced to die. 

As the Yigilantes stood with uncovered heads while the 
leader pronounced the ghastly death -sentence. Colonel 
Snowe came up the trail, a lady on his arm. This lady 
was travel- worn and covered with dust. The Yigilantes, 
rough and immovable as they were, did not refuse to 
allow a lady to approach. They were silent and respect- 
ful as the woman entered their lines. Behind the 
colonel and lady lingered the old negro, with head as 
white as wool. The young man did not see the party. 
He was still looking the other way ; looking at the 
mountains ; looking for his mother — that mother who 
was to arrive but to kiss his lips ere they ^ould be sealed 
in death. 

Who has not seen a child waiting for mother to come ? 
Nothing but mother will satisfy it. All the gold, all 
the good things of earth — a king's praise, the smiles of a 
queen, diamonds, laces, and lands — all are as nothing 
compared to one word, one look from her — from mother ; 
and though plain, and haggard from toil, pale from 
hunger, weak and withered — God bless the mothers, 
every one ! 

But here was a man — a strong man — waiting for 
mother. He was sentenced to die. But somehow his 
old child-feeling came over him now. He wanted to 
see mother. He waited for mother ; he wanted only 
mother. 

The old red-faced monster that hovered on the edge 
of the mob, inciting it, waiting for Dosson, wondering 
where he was all tlie time, expecting him every moment, 



130 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

SO that slie might share the joy of re\^enge with him — 
this creature pushed her way up to the strangers, and, 
with grinning and leers, told them in brief, and after a 
barbarous fashion, the bitter and awful chronicle. 

The distracted mother, with a wild shriek, caught her 
son in her arms. Then, as old '' '49" shrunk back, 
helpless, half -crazed from the unendurable excitements 
and scenes of the day, the mother turned to the leader 
of the Yigilantes, who stood with his hat in his hand, 
his head bowed before her. 

"It is my boy," began the woman, holding her dar- 
ling's head to her breast, and then putting it back, kissing 
him, and looking him in the face. " It is — it is my 
boy, my Charley." 

" Mother," gasped the youth, " you find me ashamed 
to lift my head. I tried to get on, mother. I did 
reform. I went to work ; I worked night and day. 
Mother, I did reform ; but all — all was against me !" 

" Why did you do this thing ?" said Snowe, bitterly, 
while "'49,' ' from his retreat back on the edge of the mob, 
craned his neck, and listened as only such a sorrowing 
man could. He felt assured that his son had killed this 
man ; and he felt, too, that the dead man deserved 
death. 

" Why did you do this thing ?" urged Snowe. 

" I swear before Heaven I did not. I am as innocent 
as my dear mother here," replied Charley, his head 
proudly erect. 

" I know you are innocent ! I know you are inno- 
cent. You shall not swear to me that you are innocent. 
I Icnow it. Lay your head on my breast and rest, my 
tired, heart-broken boy. They shall not touch you now 
— no more now ! No more, no more, no more !" wailed 
the agonized mother. 



OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 131 

'' Oil, mother, 1 am so glad yon liavc come ! Bnt 
see ! What will tliey do with me ? Oh, mother, 1 have 
waited and waited for you ! But see ! They want 
me !" cried Devine. 

*' Nothing — nothing shall harm you. My boy, all will 
be well ! But now come away. You look so wretched ! 
You must have some clothes ; you must rest, and then 
you will tell me all about these great mountains, and we 
will go home together, and we will have a splendid time 
together, Charley. " 

" 1 tried to make money, mother, so as to come back 
to you, and take care of you," he said, trembhngly. 

'' Yes — yes ; come along, Charley, and never mind 
the money. Let us get out of these mountains, my dear, 
dear boy. Come along. Never mind. Leave every- 
thing. If I only have you, 1 am happy." And the 
poor mother tried to lead him awa3^ 

'' He must remain," protested the captain, mildly. 

The woman held her boy to her breast, and pressed 
his head down to her shoulder, and stroked his hair ten- 
derly as she said : 

" But, sir, you know he is my boy. lie is my son — 
my only son. Why, sir, I have come all the way to Cali- 
fornia, and into these wild mountains, to find him, to see 
him, sir, and now — " 

'' But he is accused of crime ; and, madam, 1 am very 
sorry, but he must remain." 

'^ But, sir — but, sir — Stand close to me, Charley, 
close to your mother, Charley — You know, sir, I for- 
give him. He may have been a little bit wild, sir, but 
he will not be so any more. I am his mother ; he is my 
son — my only child, sir. Oh, he is so good and so true ! 
He was always so kind to his mother ; you would have 
loved him for that, I know. Sir, do not keep us here. 



132 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

You see lie is so weak — he is hungry ; he is faint and 
famishing. Come, Charley, come ; come away." 
" Madam, he cannot come." 
" And why can he not come with his mother V ' 
" He is convicted of a crime, and must die." 



CHAPTER XV. 

PURE GOLD. 

What though, on peril's front you stand? 

What though through lone and lonely ways, 
With dusty feet, with horny hand, 

You toil unfriended all the days, 

And die at last of man's dispraise ? 

Would you have chosen ease, and so 
Have shunned the fight ? God honored you 

With trust of weighty v/ork. And oh ! 
The Captain of the Heavens knew 
His trusted soldier would prove true. 

The "Vigilantes make sliort work of what they take in 
hand. A few hours for prayer, farewells, and that is 
all they allow to those whom they condemn to death. 

Devine sat in tlie cabin alone, under sentence of 
death, while the guard at the door paraded solemnly up 
and down. The young man arose and walked to and 
fro, and muttered to himself : 

" And so 1 must die ! Oh, it is fearful, and 1 inno- 
cent — innocent ! Poor mother ! Poor, broken-hearted 
mother ! That last farewell- — it will kill her," and the 
wretched youth groaned in mental agony. " 1 am to be 
shot — shot to death at dawn, and these are my grave- 
clothes," said the man, bitterly, as he stood before the 
habiliments of death — a black cloak and hat. 

The Yigilantes had again turned tliis old cabin into a 
prison. They had taken up the dead man's body from 
before the door, and laid it in a grave. They had, in- 



134 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

deed, dug two graves — one for the dead, one for tlic 
living. 

There was a parley at the cabin door, and then the 
old miner, '^ '49," bowed, trembling, crushed, came 
tottering in. 

' ' My boy, my poor lone boy, ' ' he began ; ^ ^ you must 
not die now. We will strike it in the tunnel. Gold ! 
gold ! Heaps of gold ! Enough for your poor mother ! 
Enough for us all ! Enough for the world !" 

'' Poor old man !" thought Charley, tears in his eyes. 
" 1 knew that that tunnel would turn his head at last. 
When I am laid below the sod, he, the last of the grand old 
men of the Sierras, will wander about the land, a tramp, 
a homeless, helpless old man, still talking of that tunnel." 

^' If anything happens to me, and if you — if you do 
get out of this, promise me that you will go back to the 
tunnel once more," pleaded the old man. '' Promise 
me that you will go back there yourself, though it be 
years and years. For there, in the right-hand corner — 
in the right-hand corner of the tunnel — " 

" Please, my dear old partner, be calm," gently inter- 
posed Devine. " My dear old friend, this trouble has 
shaken your mind. But be calm, in these my last 
moments. To-morrow — to-morrow you can talk of your 
tunnel. Ah ! as the old song ran, ' We will all reform 
to-morrow ! ' " Then he said to himself ; " And where 
will I be to-morrow ?" 

'' But," persisted '' '49," " I tell you we will strike 
it ! It's no time to die nov\^." 

He had not yet heard of the mass of gold discovered 
on his lode, only a few feet away from where his pick lay 
rusting in the tunnel. Who to tell him of it ? Califor- 
nians knew how to keep such secrets. If he had only 
known of it, how quickly he would have clasped wife 



PURE GOLD. 135 

and 1)0/ to iiis bosom, and langlied attlie claims of others 
to his gold. 

But the boy was not tiiinkmg of gold. '^ And Carrie ? 
Where is Carrie ?" he said. " I am to die. I am to be 
shot to death at dawn. Why could she not have come to 
me ? She, of all, to stay away at such a time as this." 

A sob close behind " '49," and he folded the loving 
girl in his arms. 

" 1 gathered them in the dark, and in the moonliglit 
on the mountain," sobbed the poor child, handing him 
a lieap of flowers. " I thought you would like to have 
some, you, who love flowers so. Why, you look 
awful nice, don't you ? But I wouldn't have put them 
on ; 1 should have died ragged and wretched, like — like 
your poor, ragged, wretched, little Carrie." 

Taking her apron from her eyes, she saw the black 
cloak and hat. 

" Why, what are these for ?" she cried. 

" To die in," answered the young man, bitterly. 

^' To die in ? Oh, here in these pure white moun- 
tains, what is so hard as man ?" and she bowed her head 
and wept bitterly. 

It was already growing gray in the east. The hour of 
execution had come. There was a trampling of feet and 
a sound of voices at the door. Then some men with 
guns entered, one of whom informed the prisoner that 
his last hour had arrived. The leader of the party 
turned to the girl and said : 

'^You must come away. We are ordered to bring 
you away at once. 1 will allow you one minute only. " 

The girl still refused to go. She threw herself into 
the young man's arms, and, in a whirlwind of grief, 
shrieked : " You shall not die ! ' '49,' save him ! Save 
him ! I will not go if you do not promise to save him ! 



136 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

Promise me ! Say yon will save liim ! Say you will — 
you will. Say you will save liim or die !" 

A moment's pause. 

" I — I — 1 will save liim — or die !" said tlie old man, 
solemnly. 

" You have promised." 

''1 have promised," the words coming slowly and 
solemnly as the sound of a death-bell. 

'' You will keep that promise V 

'' 1 will keep that promise." 

" Come, come," urged the guard, dragging her away. 
^' Ah, my dear old partner ! Think no more about the 
promise," cried Devine. ^' You are absolved from a 
promise made as that was made." 

'' If ever you do get out of this, go back to the 
tunnel ; in the right-hand corner of the main drift — ' ' 

'^ My dear old friend, forget that tunnel for a 
moment. Do you know that 1 am to die in less than 
half an hour ? Let us talk a little of the better world, 
for I am now done — utterly done — with this — " 

^' But there, in the right-hand corner — " 

Young Devine took the old man's hand tenderly as 
he sat on the edge of the bed, and, looking in his face, 
said : '' My friend, stand by my side but a few moments 
more. I feel the sands crumbling from under my feet 
as 1 walk by the ocean of eternity. 'No — no, my friend, 
do not feel so sadly, do not weep. 'Tis but a puff of 
smoke, and all is over. The sun will rise to-morrow just 
the same. The world will take its daily round of rest or 
strife, just as before. But 1 — but 1 will take no part or 
place in anything that is. For 1 — I shall rest — rest — rest. ' ' 

" Oh, that I could die for you ! You ! So young ! 
So full of life, and health, and heart, and hope," 
groaned '' '49." 



PURE GOLD. 137 

'' No ; consider wliat I shall escape. I shall escape all 
the ills and heartaches that lie between this and old acre. 
And it will not be long before you all will follow me. 
In a little time, one by one, you will seek some quiet 
resting-place where other poor weary mortals rest ; 
and there, grouped together on some hill-top, you will 
rest, caravans of the dead, waiting the great aw^akening. 
See, my old friend, we are all — all under a sentence of' 
death. I am to be- shot at daylight ; you have a few 
days of reprieve. ' ' 

The old man began once more. " But it is hard to 
have to die now when we must strike it. In the 
furtherest right-hand corner of the tunnel, Charley — " 

'' Poor ' '49 ' !" .cried Charley. '' Twenty-five years 
of disappointment, and then this trouble ! His head is 
turned utterly. When I am dead, he wiU wander around 
California, talking of his tunnel. They will set dogs on 
him — the new, rich people. They vv^ill set dogs on this 
grand old relic of '49. But it won't last long." 

^Notwithstanding all the bloodthirstiness and brutality 
of the Vigilantes — for I am not one of those who deify 
mobs under this name or any other — they displayed a 
sort of dignity and decorum in all that they did. They 
invariably required a man's real name. They were 
savagely in earnest. They always wanted to hang a man 
imder his real name. They had asked for and had the 
name of this young man, Charles Devine. They had 
written it down, and when the guard came to take him 
to the place of execution, the captain took the book from 
his belt, opened it, held it up and out toward the eastern 
gray dawn, and, with some effort, read softly a name. 
Then arranging his men on either side of the open cabin 
door, he again slowly read the name. It looked as if this 
officer was glad of any excuse for delay. He stood wait- 



138 

ing the full dawn now. He waited so long at tlie door 
that tlie young man lay down to rest and meditate on tlio 
bunk back in tlie corner. Soon all was still. 

At last lie peered in at the door which he had pushed 
open. It was still very dark inside. He sav/ a figure 
standing ready. It was muffled in the black cloak,, with 
a black hat drawn low over the face. 

The little calico curtains back in the corner w^ere 
closed. The dog had been taken away by the Vigilantes, 
for fear, at the last moment, he might put in some sort 
of protest, and there was nothing to be seen in the dark 
little cabin save this one silent figure standing there ready. 

^' Charles DevineT' 

^^Here!" 

And with a hrm step the muffled figure marched 
forth, took its place between the lines of Vigilantes, and 
in the dim dawn moved hastily and silently away to the 
place of execution. 

-X- * -5f 4f -Jt * 

A fresh-dug grave among the green pines on the 
hillside. A rude coffin beside the grave. The crowd is 
held back, and will be held back by the Vigilantes till 
all is over. Then they may come, or pass by and look 
upon the dead man's face. The shrill, harsh voice of 
that monstrous woman, Mississip, can be heard, now and 
then, in the gray dawn, calling for Dosson. Her laugh 
— that wicked laugh of hers, as she gloats over her re- 
venge — can be heard, and she talks to the mob that is 
waiting for the crack of the rifles before they can pass the 
guard to see the dead man in the coffin. The far peaks 
are tipped with gold. It is dawn in the valley, and yet 
not daylight. There is light, but it is as if a sheet of sil- 
ver shone in your eyes. Nature is not yet wide awake. 

The guard enter the clearing, a man in black between 



PURE GOLD. 130 

tliem. The man falls on his knees by the coffin. Then 
he rises np, takes a seat on the coffin, folds his arms 
above liis lieart, and signals that lie is ready to die. 

A line of men armed with rifles is drawn up before him. 
The captain of tlie Vigilantes stands at the head of the 
line. There is not even the chirp of a bird. It is some- 
thing like that fearful silence that precedes earthquakes. 

At last the captain takes out the book, and reads the 
sentence and the name. Then arranging his men in line 
he steps back and says : 

^' Gentlemen of the Yigilantes, you are now to enforce 
the sentence of death. You will aim directly at the 
heart. All of your guns are loaded except one. One 
only is not loaded with ball ; but no man knows which 
one that is. You will make ready !" 

All these executioners are in black masks. All are 
silent as death. The captain turns to the prisoner : 

" Charles Devine, you were arrested for murder, con- 
victed of murder, and are now about to die for that 
crime. Invoke your God." 

The man on the coffin only bows his head. 

'' Make ready, men !" 

The men lift their guns, and there is an ominous and 
terror-striking click. 

" Blindfold the prisoner !" 

A man advances with a handkerchief, and bending 
over the prisoner a second, he springs back, exclaiming : 

^' It is not Charles Devine !" 

^'Kot Charles Devine?" 

^'^o. It is ' '49' !" 

The man on the coffin struggles to his feet, and cries : 

'' It is Charles Devine ! I tell you it is Charles 
Devine ! Fire ! I tell you lam Charles Devine ! I've 
been here since '49, and I guess I ought to know. Fire. " 



CHAPTER XYI. 

THE HEIRESS. 

The Past has gone as the Present will go, 

And the Future we know not of ; 
But ever the Present seems filled with woe, 

And ever the Past with love. 

The captain of the Yigilantes was sadly troubled. xLg 
at first rejoiced at what had haj^pened. But then the 
big, weighty word '' duty" was there confronting him. 

'' Bring the real prisoner here at once to execution !" 
he gloomily said. 

The guard hastened to obey. 

They found the young man sleeping like a babe, as if 
no trouble had ever come to him. He did not know 
what had happened, but rose up and went with the 
guard to death, as if they had now come for him for the 
first time. 

Colonel Billy had been forgotten. And what was 
there about him worth remembering ? 

The rougher element of the camp had missed their 
leader, and they kept wondering what had become of 
Dosson. Had he fled for fear that this desperate 
stranger would murder him, too ? 

Let us return to the bar-room, where Colonel Billy 
had '' set up" the drinks. 

The barkeeper, like all good barkeepers, had kept 
bravely at his post. In the mines the saloon is the 
wheel-house— the barkeeper is the captain at the wheel. 



THE HEIRESS. 141 

Just before dawn this barkeeper was startled from his 
sleep between two blankets behind the counter by cries 
that came from the dark among the barrels. 

'' Oh, oh, oh, such a dream ! Oh, my head ! my 
head ! my head ! Oh, such a dream !" 

The barkeeper sprang up, and holding a candle under 
the red nose of the man, as he tried to raise himself be- 
tween the barrels, shook him by the shoulder till the old 
teeth rattled in their gums. 

'' Billy, Billy, Billy ! You old idiot." 

'' Oh, such a bloody dream I Dosson shoots Emens, 
gits the gold, scoots across, hides in the old tunnel, and 
I gits a nugget with blood on it, and — " 

'' Dosson shoots Emens ! Get up, you fool ! A man 
will be shot for your drunkenness ! Get up, or I'll brain 
you with the candlestick." 

The barkeeper loved Belle. Therefore, if for no 
other reason, he hated Dosson to the death. lie poured 
a pint of rum down the hoarse, raw throat of Colonel 
Billy, and throwing on his clothes, and clutching two 
pistols, he dragged the colonel after him. There was no 
time to be lost — the bar, for once, must take care of itself. 

In a few moments they reached the mouth of the old 
abandoned tunnel. All was diirk and silent. But by 
the dim dawn they could see broken weeds underfoot. 
Some one had entered it. Old Colonel Billy wslq 
made wide awake by the rum, and now, comprehending 
the situation, proved invaluable. 

The pair entered the tunnel, one holding a candle, the 
other two cocked pistols. This was a dangerous and a 
stupid thing to do. They should have laid siege at the 
mouth of the tunnel and waited. Yet now there was no 
time to wait. 

Turning round a big boulder that lay near the 



142 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

entrance, tliey beheld Dosson asleep against tlie granite 
wall. The man was helpless as the dead man he had 
left lying down yonder at the mouth of the tunnel. 

The murderer opened his eyes. He looked into the 
ugly muzzles of two lifted j)istols. He, even in his 
sleep, clutched and held a pistol, with its one empty 
chamber, as he waited for the last man to disappear from 
the trail before he ventured to escape. 

But he had been overtaken by sleep. Now all was 
over. What a persistent and all-pursuing officer is sleep ! 

He begged for his life. He told of the gold. He 
would give them each one quarter, and they would be 
the richest men in the Sierras. 

His captors shook their heads. He would give them 
two thirds — all ! 

The two men, at a run, marched this strong and 
desperate murderer between them toward the place of 
execution. With pointed pistols, they pushed in upon 
the Yigil antes just as young Devine was brought up 
from the cabin where he slept. 

The Yigilantes were first awe-stricken, then furious. 

Had not they themselves almost been murderers ? 
Tliey now treated young Devine as tenderly as if he had 
been a child. 

Against the red-handed ruffian now before them, their 
rage, though smothered, was fearful. As the captain 
pointed at the coffin, the open grave, Dosson's knees 
began to knock together. He saw a yawning grave wait- 
ing to receive him. 

The Yigilantes exchanged glances. They understood 
each other's thoughts, and Dosson understood them, too. 
He took his place on the coffin. Clear, sharp, and 
deadly the rifles rang out. 

The crowd nov/ came pressing on — the distracted 



THE HEIRESS. 143 

motlier to receive the dead body of her boy, the monster 
Mississip to look down upon his dead face and gloat over 
her revenge and the agony of the girl Carrots. This 
miserable creature came on ahead of all. But the cap- 
tain, in mercy, turned her aside. 

Once more the loving mother held Charley, her boy, 
to her heart. Every man uncovered his head. Some 
turned aside, and pretended that the new-risen sun hurt 
their old eyes, causing them to water. 

Old '' '49," wild and half crazed, suddenly shrieked : 

'^ I tell you, we have struck it ! " 

Old Colonel Billy had elbowed his way to the old man, 
and had forced a gleaming piece of gold in his hand, 
whispering the truth in his ear. 

" Heaps of gold !" said '' '49." '' Ila, ha ! Gold 
enough to pave the streets of a city ! See there — and 
there — and there ! Tons of it ! Ha, ha ! Tons of it 
as rich as that ! What did I tell you ? 1 knew it was 
there — I knew it was there for twenty-five years ! And 
now ' '49 ' is a millionaire, and them two burglars that 
w^ere breaking into his mine are dead — dead, as they 
deserved ! And you, Charley, my boy, you are my pard. 
Tons of it— tons of it, just Kke that !" shouted '"49." 

All at once the old man seemed to begin to grow calm 
and to understand. He passed his hand across his brow, 
and seemed to see a new light. He approached close to 
his son and looked strangely into his face. Suddenly 
his eyes brightened with intelligence and love. Leaning 
forward and grasping a hand of the son and the motlier 
in his, he sang, in a wild, strange, and far-away voice : 

" Then sing the song we loved, love, 
When all life seemed one song ; 
For life is none too long, love, 
Ah, love is none too long." 



144 *49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

'^ I am your father," he cried to the youth. '' I am your 
husband!" he cried to the tearful woman. ''Come!" 

Of a verity, the new-risen sun or something was hurt- 
ing the eyes of the Vigilantes as the crowd moved away 
down the hill toward the tavern, for they drew their 
sleeves across their eyes, and blinked and stumbled as 
they walked. 

Belle came curiously along, and stood in the crowd 
that lingered at the cabin door. She and Carrie both 
seemed frightened and out of place. 

Charley felt a little hand pulling at his sleeve, and he 
heard a little timid voice say, " Good-by, Cliarley." 

"What do you say, Carrie ?" and he turned to the 
child. 

"1 am so glad you are rich. And dear, good old 
''49,' too. You are both all right now," and she 
turned to go. "And so, good-by ! good-by !" But 
her heart was breaking. 

" Good-by, ' '49 '—father ! Good-by ! I am as glad 
— yes, 1 am as glad that you have struck it at last as if I 
had found a new flower. Good-by ! good-by !" 

"Why, Carrie! Carrie! where are you going?" 
asked Charley. 

" I'm going away — I'm going far away." 

" What are you talking of ? You are not going away 
now. Why, if you leave me, there will be no sunlight 
in the mountains any more," he said. 

" I'm afraid of your mother, and him, that crabbed 
old lawyer, and all of them. Then what can I be to you 
now ?" 

" You can be my wife ? you, Carrie — you, and you 
only." 

" Struck it ! Struck it, Charley ! You have struck 
pure gold !" says old " '49," cheerily. 



THE HEIRESS. 145 

'' All ! that 1 have, father." 

The mother took the sun-browned little waif of the 
mountains tenderly by the hand. But the girl, realizing 
the gulf that yawned between them, was again turning 
away. 

"Stay yet one moment," said the lawyer; '''your 
work may be done, but my work is only now begun. 
The heiress ? Charley, you must assist me here." 

" Well, there's little to be said or done. There is 
your heiress," and he pointed to Belle. 

" True, sir, true. Yet I must now prove to myself, to 
the law, to the world, that this is really she. Call black 
Sam ; let him approach slowly, and sing his old planta- 
tion songs. Sir, I never made a mistake or lost a case. 
Come here, ' ' added the lawyer to Belle. ' ' Please 
stand here. Now you shall hear a little song — a sweet 
melody, that will remind you of other days." 

Sam leaned forward on the edge of the crowd, tapped 
his foot on the ground, slapped his hand on his knee, 
and sang in a low, sweet voice : 

" Oil, hallelujalem ! Ob, hallehijalem ! 
Oh, honey, won't you come, 
Oh, honey, won't you come. 

To de bussom ob de Lord? 
When de world's all on fire. 
When de world's all on fire, 

To de bussom ob de Lord ? ' ' 

Carrie stood at one side with Charley. As the old 
black man's song began, she started, listened, stepped 
forward, and was in an ecstasy of quiet delight. 

Belle remained by Snowe. 

''' She doesn't notice it yet, but I never made a mis- 
take," said the old lawyer, rubbing his hands. " Sam," 
he added, " come a little nearer, where you can see her 



146 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

— there ! Look at her. And now yon shall sing the 
otlier cradle- song- — the song yon sang together when she 
w^as a child." 

''All right, massa," said Sam; "here 1 is; bnt 1 
don't like dose eyes. Can't help it, massa ; bnt 1 don't 
like dose eyes !" 

" Shnt up this instant. I tell yon it is she. It is — 
it's got to be ! Now, my little lady," said Snowe to 
Belle, " listen. We are going to have a little song 
that yon will like, I know — that yon will like and 
remember." 

Then, tnrning to the spectators, who held their breath 
in expectation : 

" Take notice, every one of yon. Yon shall all see. 
Now, Sam, the other little song." 

Sam sang a line or two, and then pansed. 

" You do — you do like it ? Yon do — you do remem- 
ber it, don't you ?" cried Snowe, eagerly, to Belle. 

"No, I don't. 1 don't remember it at all, and I 
don't like it a bit," was the sad girl's reply. Her once 
proud head was held low and abashed, and she could 
take little interest even in things of the greatest concern 
now. She had really loved Gully. But he had not only 
been expelled from the Order of Yigilantes, but had been 
banished forever. 

Again Sam sang, and Carrie leaned forward and 
looked in his face, still keeping a little distance off. 

" That voice — that dusky face ! It is — it is the dream 
of the desert !" cried she, clapping her hands. 

Sam stopped, looked around, and began another stanza. 
Carrie came nearer. Sam stopped. Carrie took up the 
song, and sang a stanza. She joined in and began to 
sing. They approached, singing together, and as the 
song ended she sprang into his arms. 



THE HEIRESS. 147 

'^ My cliile — my cliile ! Dis is de cliile — dis is de 
cliile !" 

Then he tore away her sleeve, and pointed to the scar 
on her arm. 

'' Dar — dar ! Dat is de Mormon's bullet-mark !" 

'' Eureka ! Found — found !" shouted the old lawyer. 
" I have found my heiress ! I told you so ! 1 never made 
a mistake, and 1 never lost a case ! This is the heiress, 
at last !" and he triumphantly took Carrie by the hand. 

^' And am I really somebody in particular?" asked 
Carrie, in wonder. 

'^ You are what you have always been — a little 

princess in disguise," said Charley, tenderly. 

* * -x- * * * 

In the background, in the dusk of life, as it were, silent, 
grateful, stood an old man, a subject of awe and rever- 
ence. The woman he left leaning on the mantelpiece, 
thousands of miles away, is now, in the dusk of life, lean- 
ing lovingly on his arm. It is as a new marriage cove- 
nant — the eternal peaks of the Sierras are the great high 
priests in their robes of white at God's altar. 

And strange, pitiful, piping old Colonel Billy is so alone 
now. His '' pardner" is going away. He sees him al- 
ready in some great fashionable hotel far away, a tight 
collar on his great hairy neck, a breastplate of wbite starch 
on his bosom, and tight boots on his feet of freedom — 
splendor all about ; the little girl in high-heeled boots, 
silks, and a thousand pretty things to make her person 
lovely. He feels hurt, humbled; for '''49" had once 
said, "We will go back together and buy the Astor 
House, Billy, bar and all ; " and now he has forgotten it. 
Colonel Billy coughs, spits cotton, looks at the woman 
on old " '49' s " arm, and feels jealous. 

The old hero of the tunnel hears the comrade of his 



148 '49, THE GOLD-SEEKER OF THE SIERRAS. 

early days, sees liim spitting cotton, and comprehends. 
Laying liis left hand on the shoulder of the ^^ total 
wreck," he says, "Billy, you're in with us." Colonel 
Billy jerks off his hat, and then, as the occasion is op- 
portune, proceeds to make a speech. And this is his 
speech : 

'^ Boys, boys, we old fellers of the days of Forty-nine 
are about pegged out — not many more of us left — but 
when we're all dead, write tliis : They were rough, 
maybe ; but they did their level best. " 

THE END. 



116 

ARCHIBALD MALMAISON. 

A New Novel. ByJuuAN Hawthorne. Price, paper, 13 cts.; cloth, extra 
paper, 75 cents. 



INDEPENDENT, N. V. " Mr. Julian Hawthorne car: choose no better com- 
pliment upon his new romance, ' Archibald Malmaison,' than the assurance 
that he has at last put forth a story which reads as if the manuscript, written 
in his father's indecipherable handwriting and signed ' Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne/ had lain shut into desk for twenty-five years, to be only just new 
pulled out and printed. It is a masterful romance ; short, compresstd, terri- 
bly dramatic in its important situations, based upon a psychologic idea as 
weirl and susceptible of startling treatment as possible. It i? a book to be 
read through in two hours, but to dwell in the memory forever. It so cleverly 

• surpasses ' Garth ' or ' Bressant in its sympathy with the style of the elder 
Hawthorne that it must remain unique among Mr. Julian Hawihorne's works 
— until he exceeds it. The employment of the central theme and the literary 
conduct of the plot is nearly beyond criticism. The frightful climax breaks 
upon the perception of tlae reader with surprise that he did not foresee it ; 
another tribute on his part to the unconventional ity which is one of the many 
touches of eminent art in Mr. Hawthorne's tale." 

R. H. STODDARD, IN NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS. "The cli- 
max is so terrible, as the London Times h^s pointed out, and so dramatic in 
itf, intensity, that it is impossible to class it with any situation of modern fic- 
tion. . . Mr. Hawthorne is clcaily and easily the first of living romancers." 

THE CONTINENT, N. Y. "The most noteworthy story Mr. Julian Haw- 
thorne has ever produced. . . No wilder romance has ever been imagined. 
, . A brilliant and intensely powerful v/ork. . . It is certain that such 
power sets the author at the head of modern romancers.'' 

THE LONDON TIMES, " After perusal of this weird, fantastic tale (Archi- 
bald Malmaison), it must be admitted that upon the shoulders of Julian 
Hawthorne has descended in no small degree the mantle of his more illustri- 
ous lather. The climax is so terrible, and so dramatic in its intensity, that it 
is impossible to class it with any situation of nsodcrn fiction. There is much 
psychological ingenuity shown in some of the more subt.c touches that lend 
an air of reality to this wild romance." 

THE LONDON GLOBE. " 'Archibald Malmaison,' is one of the most daring 
attempts to set the wildest fancy masquerading in the cloak ot science, which 
has ever, perhaps, been made. Mr. Hawthorne has managed to combine the 
almost perfect construction of a typical French novelist, with a more than 
typically German power of conception. Genius is here of a kind more artistic- 
ally self-governed than Hoffman's, and less obviously self-conscious than 
Poe's. A strange sort of jesting humor gives piquancy to its grimne^s." 

THE ACADEMY. "Mr. Hawthorne has a more powerful imagination than 
any contemporary writer of fictien. He has the very uncommon gift of taking 
hold of the reader's attention at once, and the Still more uncommon gift of 
maintaining his grasp when it is fixed." 



TJIE PEARL-SHELL NECKLACE.— PRINCE HA- 

RONPS V/lPE. 

Two Novels. By Julian Hawthorne, one volume, i2mo, paper, 15 cents; 

cloth, extra paper, 75 cents. [In press.] 

CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. "The 'Pearl-Shell Necklac:' is a stor>- of 

permanent value, and stands quite alone for subtle blending of individual and 

general human interest, poetic and psychologic suggestion, and rare humor." 

SPECTATOR. *' ' The Pearl-Shell Necklace' wherever found, would stamp 
Its author as a man of genius. Even the elder Hawthorne never produced 
more weird effects within anything like the same compass. And yet there is 
absolutely no imitation." 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., New York. 



117 

HIMSELF AGAIN. 

A New Novel. By J. C. Goldsmith, i2mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth, extra 
paper, $1.00. 



COMMENTS OF THE PRESS. 

THE BOSTON' GLOBE. " Its peculiar qualities are its delineation of eccen- 
Iric character which is notabiv free and bold, and its familiarity with many 
kinds of present American life and manners, and its original, realistic treat- 
ment. . . Beneath the sprightly dash with which the story is outlined and 
liiled, there is conscious strong power. It is finely written, and of decided 
merit." 

THE EVENING POST, HARTFORD. " Unlike most novels, the first chap- 
ters of this remarkable story are the weakest. But let the reader persevere and 
he will find opened to him a wonderful world of novel and interesting charac- 
ters, a valuable and unique philosophy, and an almost unsurpassed background 
of American city and country scenery, both land and water." 

BOSTON ADVERTISER. "The writer displays more than average insight 
into the workings of human nature, and the naturalness of his character draw- 
ing is no doubt the secret of the special attiaction that lies in the book." 

CLEVELAND LEADER. " This is a purely American novel. . . and one 
ol the best we have seen. It is so vivid in its description of localities and 
personage^, that the reader hardly doubts that all i> real. And in accom- 
plishing this ti'e author achieves a kind of charm that is as delightful as it is 
hard to define." 



RUTHERFORD. 



A New Novel. By Edgar Favvcett. Author cf "An Ayttdiiious Woman," 

"A Gentleman of Leisure," "A Hopeless Case," " Tinkling Cymbals" 

etc, i2mo, paper, 25 cts; cloth, extra paper, gi. 00, 

MR. FAWCETT has of late been steadily and rapidly advancing toward the 
foremost place among American novelists. He deals with phises of society 
that require the utmost skill ; but his quick insight into character, his ready 
sympathies, and his conscientious literary art, have proved more than equal to 
the tasks he has undertaken. It is certain that many of the best critics are 
watching his course with high anticipations. In ' Rutherford, his latest 
work, neither they nor the public will be disappointed. It is a novel of New 
York society, and rarely has character been portrayed with more de'icate but 
effective touches than in the case of some of these representatives of Knicker- 
bocker caste. The story is by no means confined to them however, but is en- 
riched to a very great degree by characters taken from lower social planes. 
Nothing the author has ever done, perhaps, surpasses his characterization of 
' Pansy ' one of the two sisters who have fallen from affluence to poverty. 
Through them he arouses the deepest sympathies, and shows a dramatic 
power that is full of promise. It is needless, of course, to commend the liter- 
ary finish of Mr. Fawcett's style. It is fust approaching perfection. 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, 10 & 12 Dey St., New York. 



118 

THE FORTUNES OF RACHEL. 

A New Novel. By Edward Everett Hale. i2mo, paper, 25c.; cloth, Ix. 



CHRISTIAN UNION N. Y ' Probably no American has a more devoted 
constituency of readers than Mr Edward Everett Hale, and to all these his 
latest stoiy, ' The Fortunes of Rachel, will bring genuine pleasure. Mr. Hale 
is emphatically a natural writer; he loves to interpret common things and to 
deal with average persons. He does this with such insight, with such noble 
conception of life and of his work, that he discovers that profound interest 
which belongs to the humblest as truly as to the most brilliant forms ot life. 
. . This story is a thoroughly American novel, full of incident, rich in 

strong traits of character, and full of stimulating thought; it is wholesome and 
elevating." 

BOSTON JOURNAL. " The virtue of the book is the healthful, encouraging, 
kindly spirit which pervades it, and which will help one to battle with adverse 
circumstances, as, indeed, all Mr. Hale's stories have helped." 

NEIV YORK JOURNAL OF COMMERCE. "A purely American story, 
original all through, and Rachel is one of the pleasantest and most satisfactory 
ofherome?. She is a girl of the soil, unspoiled by foreign travels and con- 
ventionalities. After surfeiting on romances whose scenes are laid abroad, it 
is delightful to come across a healthy home product like tbis." 

BOSTON GLOBE, " Every one knows that Mr. Hale is the prince of story- 
tellers." 



MUMU, AND THE DIAR Y OF A SUPERFL UOUS MAN. 

Two powerful novels descriptive of serf and upper-class life in Russia. 
By Ivan Turgenieff. i2mo, paper, 15c.; cloth, extra paper, 75c. 



N. Y. TRIBUNE. *' His characters are vital; they suffer with a pathos that 
irresistibly touches the reader to sympathy. Those who would write in the 
same vein get merely his admirable manner, full of reserve, of self-restraint, 
of joyless patience; but while under this surface with Turgenieff he throbbing 
arteries and quivering flesh, his imitators offer us nothing more than lay figures 
in whose fortunes it is impossible to take any lively interest. They represent 
before us only poor phases of modern society, while Turgenieff has explained 
io us a nation apd shown the playof emotions that are as old .'is the world and 
:as new as the hour in which they are born." 

IJITERARY WORLD, Boston. " These two stories . . are unquestion- 
ably to be ranked among their author's masterpieces. . . *Mumu' will 
•bear a great amount of study ; it marks out a whole method in fiction." 

THE MANHATTAN. "One of the most powerful and touching pictures of 
sla*'.c-.Ule in all literature." 

LIPPINVOTT S MAGAZINE, Phila. "There are some haT dozen of Tnr- 
geniaff'sfshort stories absolutely perfect each in its way, but none, perhaps, 
quiteao exquisitely as Mumu ' shows the great artist's power to transfigure to 
our ey^fthe tenderness, passion, agonies, which lie beyond speech and almost 
beyoad^igu, in the silent heart of a strong, simple man." 

CRITIC ^.ND 'GOOD LITERATURE, N. Y. " How little_ material genius 
requires for making a ' good thing.* Turgenieff's ' Murnu ' is only the sketch 
of a deaf mute and a dog, but how beautifully told I Thsi-e are touches of 
infinite g.entlenss3 as well as of skill." 



FUNK 'S WA-GNALLS. Publishers, 10 & la Dey St.. New York. 



119 



PUBLICATIONS OF FUNK <V WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 



TALKS TO FARMERS. 

BY CHARLES H. SPURGEON. 

300 pp., ISmo, Cloth, $1.00. 

This is the last, and one of the best, of the wonderful productions 
of the fertile pen and prolific brain of Mr. Spurgeon. It consists of ;i 
series of Talks to Farmers. Each Talk is a short sermon from a 
text on some subject concerning agricnlture. Mr. Spnrgeon is as 
much at home in, and as familiar with, the scones of nature as ho is 
with the stores and business of mighty London. 

WHAT IS THOUGHT OF IT. 



Canailiftn Baptist Bays: "Our 
readers need no information abont Mr. 
Spurgeon. His name is a household 
•word. They read his scrmong con- 
stantly. They have only to be told that 
something new of his has appeared, and 
they are eager to procure and read. In 
nothing, perbaps, does Mr. Spurgeon's 
greatness manifest itself mere con- 
c-picuouGly than in hi3 wonderful 
power of adapting his discourses to the 
needs of those to Trh-'m he speaks. 
'John Ploughman's Talks' and 'John 
Ploughman's Pictures ' are admirable 
illustrations of this power. 6o is the 
t>onk before us. It will bo especially 
interesting to farmers, but all wiU en- 
joy the practical common scneo, the 
abundance of illustrative anecdote, the 
depth of spiritual insight, tJjc richness 
of imagery, that prevail in the volume. 
The subjects of tho different; chapters 
are: 'The Sluggard's Farm,' -The 
Broken JTeace,' •i'l'ost and Thaw,' 



•The Corn of Wheat Dying to Bring 
Forth Fruit,' 'The Ploughman.' 
♦Ploughing the Rock,' *Tbe Parable 
of the SoAver,' ' The Principal Wheat,' 
' Spring in tho Heart,' ' Farm Labor- 
ers,' 'What the Farm Laborers Can 
Do and T^Tiat They Cannot Do,' 'The 
Sbecp beforo the Shearers,' 'In tho 
Hav Field,' ' Spiritual Gleaning,' 
'Meal Time in the Cornfield,' ' Th« 
Leading Wagon,' 'Threshing,' 'The 
Wheat in the Barn.' Every farmer 
should read this book." 

Th.© Clsristiaii J»?oni<or, St. 
Louis, Mo., Fays : "Most interesting and 
unique. Tho argumente in favor of 
C: ris'ianity arc able and convincing, 
andtLere is not adry.uninteresting line 
in the book; the distinguiBhed author 
presents the principles of relipious lif^ 
in a novel but instructive manner, and 
the garniture of truth and earnestness 
in hi3 competent hands makes the book 
eminently readable, ' 



Godet's Co^im©ntary on Ko2:aass.s- 

This American edition is edited by Talbot W. Chambeks, D.D. 544 
large octavo pages. Cloth, $2.50. 



Hotvard Crosby, U.IIJ., eayrs : 

•I consider Godet a man of soundest 
laaming and purest orthodoxy." 

Thomas Arisiltage, D.D., pays: 
"Especially must I commend the fair, 
painstaking,thorougb and devout work 
of Dr. Godet. AH his works are wel- 
come to every true thinker." 



ArtlsTjr Broolig, D.D.. soys: 

" Any on© acquainted with Godet's 
other works will congratulate hims'ilf 
that tho saine authors clear logic and 
deep learning, as brought to bear upon 
the dif&culties of the Epistle to the IJo- 
nians, are to be made accessible through 
this publication." 



e^ The 



above w rks wi.l be sent by tHj.il, postage paid, on receipt 0/ th* pt\ 



^PUBLICATIONS OF FUNIC &* WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 



120 



GEMS OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

From the Writings of Dr. Guthrie, arranged under 
the subjects which they illustrate. 
\ By aa Asnerican Clergfjinasi* 

Price, in Cloth, $1.50, 

This book abounds in picturesque similes. Dr. Guthrie has rarely, 
if ever, been equaled either in the number, beauty or force of the 
illustrations with which his sermons and writings abound. They 
have been collected by an American clergyman, a great admirer of 
the author, and the book forms a perfect storehouse of anecdotes, 
comparisons, examples and illustrations. It contains the choicest of 
his illustrations, arranged under the subjects which they illustrate. 

Ihe London Tirms says: ** Dr. Guthrie is the most elegant orator in 
Europe." 

Dr. CandlUh s&ys: "Dr. Guthrie's genius has long since placed 
him at the head of all the gifted and popular preachers of our day." 

Dr. James W. Alexander says : **I listened to him for fifty minutes, 
but they passed like nothing." 



The Western. Chrlirtian Ad- 
xrocate Bays : "Dr. Guthrie was pe- 
culiarly iiaippy in the ueo of brilliant 
aud forcible illuetratlone ta hifl ser- 
mone and -writings. An American li*s 
Belected many of these gems of thcnght 
and arranged them under the subjccta 
-which they illustrate. Headers aud 
preskchers -will enjoy them, and will find 
many beautiful sentiments and seed- 
thoughts for present and future use." 

The Boston Sartday Globe 

Eaya : "Dr. Guthrie's illnstrationa are 
rich and well chosen and givQ great 
force to hia ideas. Love, faith, hope, 
charity are the pillars of hi* belief." 

The LiHtlieraTi Observer, Phila- 
delphia, says: "Thepo-werof illustra- 
tion should bo cultivated by preachers 
of the Gospel, and this volume ot speci- 
mens, if used aright, -will furnish valu- 
able suggestions. A good illustration 
in a sermon awakens the imagination, 
helps the memory and gives the barb 
to truth that it may fasten la the 
heart." 



The Christian In^ellig^ne^r 

says : " it is a large repository full of 
stirring thoughts set in those splendid 
forms of ' spiritualized imagination,' of 
which Dr. Guthrie was the peerlea* 
master." 

Th© ClirisK ian Observer, Louia- 

rUle, eays: " No words of ours could 
add to its value." 

The Bostr>n Post says: "A rare 
mine of literary wealth." 

The Obterver, New York, says: "It 
■w^as not given to every generation to 
haveaG-athrie." 

Th© Christian Advo<'a*e, New 

York, says: "This book -wall be read 
with interest by the religious world." 

The Zion's Heral.-J, Boston, says: 
"Preachers will appreciate this vol- 
ume." 

The Christian Gnardian. To- 
ronto, says: "An eKceedingly interesting 
and valuable work." 



TAt above works vuill be sent by mail, posiage paid^ on receipt of the price. 



121 

George Eliot's Essays. 

THE ESSAYS OF GEORGE ELIOT, Collected and Arranged, 
with an Introduction on her " Analysis of Motives." By Nathan 
Sheppard, author of "Shut up in Paris," '♦ Readings from George 
Eliot," etc. Paper, 25 cents; fine cloth, ^i.oo. 

( This is the first appearance of these Essays in book form in England 
or America.) 

furnish the key to all her subsequent 

literary achievements." 

Evening Transcript, Boston . 

" No one who reads these essays will re- 
gret their publication, for they are of 
striking and varied ability, and add much 
to the completeness of our conception of 
Marian Evans' character. Critical and 
artistic pov/er seldom go hand-m-hand. 
The most brilliant piece of purely literary 
work is the one on Keine and German 
•wit. It is one which reaches the highest 
level of intellectual criticism, and stands 
unsurpassed by anything of Arnold or 
Lowell." 
Cfiiurcli Union, New York: 

•' Nathan Sheppard, the collector of the 
ten essays in thisfjim, has written a high- 
ly laudatory but critical introduction to 
the book, on her 'Analysis of Motives,' 
and, after reading it, it seems to us that 
every one who would read her worVs 
profitably and truly should first have read 



The Critic, New York: 

"Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls have done 
a. real service to George Eliot's innumer- 
able admirers by reprinting in their popu- 
lar Standard Library the great novel- 
ist's occasional contributions to the period- 
ical press." 
Ne-vr York gran : 

"In the case of George Eliot especially, 
whose reviews were anonymous, and who 
could never have supposed that such 
fugitive ventures would ev«r be widely 
associated with the name of a diffident 
and obbcure young woman, we gain access 
in her early essays, as in no other of her 
published writings, o the sanctuary c f her . 
deepest ccnviclijiis, and to the intellectu:il 
workshop in which literary methods and 
processes were tested, discarded, or .ap- 
proved, and literary tools fashioned and 
manipulated long before the author had 
discerned the large purposes to which they 
were to be applied. * * * Looking back 
over the whole ground covered by these 
admirable papers, v,e are at no loss to un- 
derstand why Gecrge Eliot should have 
made it a rule to read no criticisms on her 
own stories. She had nothing to learn 
from critics. She was justified in assum- 
ing that not one of those who took upon 
themselves to appraise her achievements 
had given half of the time, or a tithe of 
the intellect, to the determination cf the 
right aims and processes of the English 
novel, which, as these reviews attest, she 
had herself ex[)ended on that object before 
venturing upon that form of composition 
which Fielding termed the modern epic." 
Kxaminor, New York : 

"These essays ought to be read by any 
one who would understand this part of 
George Eliot's career; and, indeed, they 



Z ion's Herald, Boston : 

" As remarkable illustrations of her 
masculine metaphysical ability as is evi- 
denced in her strongest fictions." 
Spisccpal Metliodist, Baltimore : 

"Everybody of culture wants to read 
all George Eliot wrote." 
Hartford Evening Post: 

•' They are admirable pieces of liter-. 
ary workmanship, but they are much more 
than that. * * * These essays are tri- 
umphs of critical analysis combined with 
epigrammatic pungencj', subtle ironyp 
and a wit that never seems strained. " 
CSiristian Advocate, New York : 

" Ihey show the versatility of the great 
novelist. One on Evangelical Teaching is 
especially interesting." 



122 
ALPHONSE DAUDErS FAMOUS BOOK, 



L'EVANGELISTE. 

B^ ALPHONSE I3A.UI3ET- 
Pounded on the Doings of the Salvation Army. 

" L'fivANGELTSTE " 13 far out of the beaten track of fiction, and its originality 
is eavyplemented by intense power and interest ; in fact, it woiild be ninicult to Und a 
romance in which the interest is more absorbing. Nor is this interest the result, 
as is deplorably the case in so much French fiction, of highly spiced sentimental- 
ity or daring vulgarity. The book is clean, wholesome, refined, and is, moreover, 
founded on fact It treats mainly of the acts and methods of that world-famous 
organization, the Salvation Army, and the heroine, Eline Ebsen, )S a Dane living 
with her mother in the Scandinavian colony in Paris. She is on the point of being 
married, and a happy life seems in store for her, but suddenly a disturbing influence 
appears in the shape of Madam Autheman, a wealthy banker's wife, who i!< given 
to making religious converts. This woman hires Elinc to translate some prayer- 
books, and during the execution of the work the girl becomes filled Avith her 
patron's enthusiasm. She breaks with her suitor and deserts her mother to serve 
as a preacher in the Salvation Army. This is the introduction to one ot the most 
thrilling novels of the day, and from thence onward the plot absolutely enthralls 
the reader, each succeeding link riveting the chain the tighter. The incidents are 
strong in the highest degree, very dramatic, and pervaded by a lurid light of mysti- 
cism which augments the effect a thousand-fold. The gradual development in the 
young heroine of the fatal passion for proselytizing people is depicted as Alphonso 
Daudet alone of all the French novelists can depict an idea, and the struggles ot 
the poor mother to recover her deluded daughter from the grasp of the rich Authe- 
mans, her vain apneals to the feeling of pity and the unsympathetic law, touch the 
heart of the reader to an extent the pen cannot depict, all the more so when one 
learns how the novel came to be written. Daudet had often observed the sad face 
of the lady who gave lessons in German to his eldest son. Surprising lier one day, 
with tears in her eyes, he induced her to narrat-e the causes of her woe. The story 
of the woman forms the basis of this novel, in which she figures as Mme. Ebsen. 



WHAT CRITICS THINK OF DAUDET. 

HENEY JAMES, Jr., says, in the Century Magazine: "We have no one, 
either in England or America, to oppose to Alphonse Daudet. Tlie appearance ot 
a new novel by this admirable genius is to my mind the most delightful literary 
event that can occur just now : in other words, Alphonse Daudet is at the head 
of his profession." 

JULES CLARETIE, the eminent French writer, says : *' To-day Alphonse 
Daudet has arrived at the full measure of his renown. In fiction he is proclaimed 
the master. ... Is the most delicate, the most sympathetic, the most charming of 
all our contemporary writers of romance. . . . The poet of romance. 

JOAQUIN MILLER says, in a letter, April 3, '84 : " I had rather be Alphonse 
Daudet than any other living man now in literature, except two ; one of these is 
Victor Hugo, and the other is— Joaquin Miller." 

Paper Cover, 50 cents. Clotla, 81-00. 

l^ This is the ONLY Complete Edition of the Story published in 
America. About one half of the Story is published in one of the cheap 
Libraries of the day— a mere fragment. 



123 FUBLICATTONS OF FUNK S WAGNALLS, NEW YORK. 

** TSte most important and practical -nrork of tlie age on t3i9 
P3alm8."-^CHAFF. 

SIX V^I^USSKS NO-^ I^EAOY. 

-SPURCiEOi^'S CRE^T LIFE W®RiC- 

THE TREASURY OF DAVID! 

To be published in seven octavo volumes of about 470 pages each, 
uniformly bound, and making a library of 3,300 pages, 
in handy form for reading and reference. 
It is published simultaneously with, and contains the exact matter o^ 
the English Edition, which has sold at $4.00 per volume 
in this country — $28.00 for the work when com- 
pleted. Our edition is in every way pref- 
erable, and is furnished at 

ONE-HAiF THE PBICE OF 

THE ENGLISH 

EDITION. 

Price, Per Vol. $2.00. 

^^ Messrs, Funk dr' Wagnalls have entered into an arrangement with 
ue to reprint THE TREASUR V OF DA VID in the United States. J 
have every confidence in them that they will issue it correctly and worthily. 
It has been the great literary work of my life^ and I trust it will be as 
kindly received in America as in England. I wish for Messrs. Funk sue* 
eess in a venture which must involve a great risk and much outlay. 

*'Dec. 8, i8Si. C. H. SPURGE ON:' 

Volumes I., n., IIL, lY., Y. and VI. are now ready; volume 
VII., which completes the great work, is now under the hand of th» 
author. Subscribers can consult their convenience by ordering all 
the volumes issued, or one volume at a time, at stated intervals, until 
the set is completed by the delivery of Volume VII. 

From the krge number of hearty commendations of this import* 
snt work, we give the following to indicate the value set upon the 
eame by 

EMINENT THEOLOGIANS AND SCHOLARS. 

PSiilipSc!iair,T^.I5., the Eminent i tical vork of the age on the Psalter is 
Commentator and the President of the ' The Treasury of David/ by Charles H 
American Bible Revision Committee, Spurgeon, It is full of the force and 
eays: "The most important and prac- I genius of this c«lebrated preacher, &nd 

(over.) 



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PUBLWATWNS HF i'UNR di ff-^A^ATALLS, NEIV YORK. 



124 



rfch la selections from the entire range 
©f literature. " 

Wi'liam M. Taylor, I>.t>.9 

New York eaya: " In the exposition of 
the heart 'Ths TREASCBy of David' is 
iui genTis, rich in experience and pre- 
eminently devotional. The exposition 
is iiiwa:> a fresh. To the preacher it is 
espsciaUy suggestive." 

^oitn Hal?, D.1>., New ifovfc, 
says: -'There are two questions that 
must interest every expositot- of tha 
Eiviaa Word. What does a particular 
■Dassage mean, and to what use is it to 
be applied in public teaching? In the 
department of the latter Mr. Spur- 
geon's great work on the Psalms is 
Without an equal. Eminently practical 
in his own teaching, he has collected in 
these volumes the best thoughts of the 
bast minds on the Psalter, and espe- 
cially of that great body^ooaeiy grouped 
together as the Puritan divines. I am 
heartily glad that by arrangements, 
Batisfactory to all concerned, the Messrs. 
"Funk & Wa(?nalls are to bring tliia great 
tyork within the roach of ministers 
everywhere, as the English edition is 
necessarily expensive. I wish the 
highest success to the enterprise," 

W^illiann Ormiaton, D.T>., New 
York, says: " I consider * The Tbkasubv 
OF David' a work of surpassing excel- 
lence.of inestimable value to every stu- 
dent of the J'salter. It will prove a 
standard work on the Psalms for all 
time. The instructive introductions, 
the racy original expositions, the 
numerous quaint illustrations gath- 
ered from wide and varied fields, and 
the suggestive Bormonic hints, render 
the volumes invaluable to all preachers, 
and indispensable to every minister's 
library. All who delight in reading the 
Psaltus — and what Christian does not? 
— will prize this w«rk. It is a rich 
cyclopaedia of the Literature of tiiese 
ancient odes." 

TUeo. li. Ctiyler, O.D., Brook- 
lyn, eays: " I have used Mr, Spurgeon's 
♦The Tbeabuey of Davib' for th?-ee 
jears, and found it worthy of its name. 
Whoso goeth in there will find ' rich 
spoils.' At both my visits to Mr. S. he 
spoke with much enthusiasm of this 
undertaking as one of his favorite 
methods of enriching himself and 
others." 

Jes^oB. Tlioina.s, D.D., Brook- 
lyn, says: " I have the highest concep- 



tion ot the sterling worth of all Mr. 
Spurgeon's publications, and I incline 
to regard his Tbeasuby of David' as 
having received more of his loving 
labor than any other. I regard its 
publication at a lower price as a great 
service to American Bible Students," 

New York Observer sayo: " A 
rich compendium of suggestive com- 
ment upon the richest devotional 
poetry ever given to mankind. ' 

Tlie Congregationalist, Eos- 
ton, says: " As a devout and spiritually 
suggestive work, it is meeting with 
the warmest approval and receiving 
the hearty commendation of the most 
distinguished divines." 

United Presbyterian, Pitts- 
burg, Pa., says: " It is unapproached 
as a commentary on the Psalms. It is 
of equal value to ministers and lay- 
men — a quality that works of the kind 
rarely possess." 

Nortb American, Philadelphia, 
Pa.: says: '•Will find a place in the 
library of every minister who knows 
how to appreciate a good thing." 

Ne"W Yorls Indepeitdfnt pays: 
" He has ransacked evangelical litera- 
ture,and comes forth, like Jessica from 
her father's house, 'gilded with 
ducats' and rich plunder in the shape 
of good and helptul quotations,' 

Ne-w York Tribune says: *'For 
the great majority of readers who seek 
in the Psalms those practical lessons 
in which they are so rich, and those 
wonderful interpretations of heart-life 
and expression of emotion in which 
they anticipate the New Testament, we 
know of no book like this, nor as good. 
It is literally a • Treasury.* " 

S. S. Times says: " Mr. Spurgeon's 
style is simple, direct and perspicuous, 
olten reminding one of the matchlesa 
prose of Bunyan." 

West/ rn Cliristian Advo^^ate, 
Cincinnati, O., says: "The price is ex» 
tremely moderate for so large and im- • 
portant a work. * * * -y^g tave ex- 
amined this volume with care, and we 
are greatly pleased with the ijlan of 
execution." 

CJiristian Herald Bays: "Con- 
tains more felicitous illustrationa, 
more valuable eermonic hints, thau can 
be found in all other Avorks on ths 
same book put together." 



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GEORGE W. CURTIS: ^^^ 

"J. inost sermceable companion^ 

HON. JUDGE EDMUNDS, U. S. SENATOR: 

^''The most complete and best toork of the k'ind.''^ 

GEN. STEWART L. V/OODFORD: 

^''The most complete and accurate hook of the kind.'' '' 

MAJ.-GEN. GEO. B. MeCLELLAN: 

" JL v)ork that shoiild he in every library.'''' 

GEORGE WASHINGTON CHILDS: 
^''Any one tnho dips into it nnll at once make a place for 

it among his well-chosen books." 

HENRY WARD BEECHER: 

" Good all the way through.'''' 



HON. ABRAM S. HEWITT: 

'■''The completeness of its indices is simply astonishing.'' ' 

WENDELL PHILLIPS (Just before his Death): ^ 
^^It is of rare value to the scholar.'''' ' 

BOSTON POST: 

*' The only standard book of quotations. For convenience and usfftdnexs the work 
cannot, to our mind, be surpassed, and it 7nust long remai n the standard among jfs kind, 
reatlMSig side by side with, and being equally indispensable in e?iery well-orde'-cd lib rary, 
«a Wo-rcester's or Wehs ter's Dictionary, Roget's Thesaurus, and Crabb's Synonyms." 

♦<THE flBO¥E COMMENDATIONS REFER TO »- 

1'he jloyt-Y/ard Eiicydop^dia of g)uotations, 

PROSE AND POETRY. 

a0,OO0 QUOTATIONS, 50,000 LINES OF CONCORDANCE. 

This full concordance of over 50,000 lines, is to quotations what Young's and 
Cruden's Concordances are to the Bible. A quotation, if but a word is remembered, 
can easily be found by means of this great work. 

Prices:— Royal, 8vo., ever goo pp.. Heavy Paper, Cloth Binding, $5,00 ; 
Sheep, $5.50; Half Morocco, $8.00; Full Morocco, $10.00. 

PuWisliers : FUNK & WAGNALLS, 10 & 12 Dey Street, Rew York. 



3pt. 8, 1884. 



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These books are printed wholly without abridgment, except Canon Farrar's "Lif« 
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No. Price' 

1. John Ploughman's Talk. C. H. 
Spurgeon. On Choice of Books. 
Thomas Carlyle. ' 4to. Both .... $0 12 

2. Manliness of Christ. Thomas 
Hughes. 4to 10 

3. Essays. Lord Macaulay. 4to... 15 

4. Ldirht of Asia. Edwin Arnold. 4*0. 15 

5. Imitation of Christ. Thomas a 
Kempis. 4to 15 

6-7. Life of Christ. Canon Farrar. 

4to 50 

8. Essays. Thomas Carlyle. 4to.. 20 
9-10. Life and Work of St. Paul. 

Canon Farrar. 4to 2 parts, both 50 
11. Self-Culture. Prof. J. S. Blackie. 

4to. 2 parts, both 10 

12-19. Popular History of England. 

Chas. Knight. 4to ? 80 

20-21. Ruskin's Letters to Workmen 

and Laborers. 4to. 2 parts, both 80 
22. Idyls of the King. Alfred Tenny- 
son. 4to 20 

33. Life of Rowland Hill. Rev. V. J. 

Charlesworth. -'to 15 

24. Town Geology. Charles Kings- 
ley. 4to 15 

25. Alfred the Great. Thos. Hughes. 

4to 20 

26. Outdoor Life in Europe. Rev. E. 

P. Thwing. 4to 28 

27. Calamities of Authors. L D'ls- 
raeli. 4to 20 

28. Salon of Madame Necker. Parti. 

4to 15 

29. Ethics of the Dust. JohnRuskin. 

4to 15 

30-31. Memories of My Exile. Louis 

Kossuth. 4to 40 

32. Mister Horn and His Friends. 

Illustrated. 4to 15 

33-34. Orations of Demosthenes. 4to. 40 

35. Frondes Agrestes. John Rue- 
kin. 4to 16 

36. ^oan of Arc. Alphonse de La- 
martine. 4to 10 

37. Thoughts of M. Aurelius AnfS^ 
ninus. 4to 15 

38. Salon of Madame Necker. Part 

IL 4to 15 

39. The Hermits. Chas. Kingsley. 4to. 15 

40. John Ploughman's Pictures, C. 

H. Spurgeon. 4to 15 

41. Pulpit Table-Talk. Dean Ram- 
say. 4to 10 

4Q. Bible and Newspaper. C. H. 

Spurgeon. 4to 15 

43. Lacofi. Rev. C. C Colton. 4to. 20 



No. Price. 

44. Goldsmith's Citizen of the WcMrld. 

4to ^ 20 

45. America Revisited. George Au- 

fustns Sala. 4to 20 
if e of C. H. Spurgeon. 8vo . . . . 20 
47. John Calvin. M. Guizot. 4to... 15 
48-49. Dickens' Christmas Books. 

Illustrated. 8vo SO 

50. Shairp's Culture and Religion. 8vo. 15 
51-52. Godet's Commentary on Luke. 
Ed.by Dr. John Hall. 8vo,2part8, 

both 2 00 

53. Diary of a Minister's Wife. Part 

L 8vo 15 

54-57. Van Doren's Suggestive Com- 
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enlarged. 8vo 3 00 

58. Diary of a Minister's Wife. Part 

IL 8vo 15 

59. The Nutritive Cure. Dr. Robert 
Walter. 8vo 15 

60. Sartor Resartus, Thomas Car- 
lyle. 4to 25 

61-62. Lothair. Lord Beaconsfield. 

8vo 50 

63. The Persian Queen and Other 
Pictures of Truth. Rev. E. P. 
Thwing. 8vo 10 

64. Salon of Madame Necker. Part 

lU. 4to 15 

65-66. The Popular History of Eng- 
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67. IngersoU Answered. Joseph Par- 
ker, D.D. 8vo 15 

68-69. Studies in Mark. D. C. 

Hughes. 8vo, in two parts 60 

70. Job's Comforters. A Religious 
Satire. Joseph Parker, D.D. (Lon- 
don.) 12mo 10 

71. The Revi.--ers' English. G.Wash- 
ington Moon, F.R.S.L. 12mo.. 20 

72. The Conversion of Children. Rev. 
Edward Payson Hammond. 12mo 30 

73. New Testament Helps. Rev. W. 

P. Crafts. 8vo 20 

74. Opium— England's Coercive Poli- 
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75. Blood of Jesus. Rev. Wm. A. 
Reid. With Introduction by E. 
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76. Lesson in the Closet for 1883. 
Charles F. Deems, D.D. 12mo.. 20 

77-78. Heroes and Holidays. Rev 

W. P. Crafts. 12mo. 2 pts., both 30 

79. Reminiscences of Rev. Lyman 

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